Perfect love carries an impersonal touch,
like silent buddahs on lotus blossoms,
waiting for suffering to breathe a final, quiet sigh.
Like ice on distant mountains,
waiting to nourish the world below.
Like a Mother hawk, hunting high,
in a cloudless sky.
A love so unearthly blind and beautiful,
That it makes no distinction between caressing mother and child,
or a perfect stranger.
Copyright © Mark Leeper