The World Above

Oh when I speak of love, I am a wandering kite made of mist, enveloped by murk; as I speak to my love, I do not write to a lover Not even to someone who saves a palm of promises and keeps a memory of my ghost in his pocket This, a feeble paper of poetry is again a whisper from the underground But down here the view is still precious; my love lives on the grandest mountain- for that I see beyond these stone walls and never forget to rise