THE FLAME IN THE LOTUS

XXIII.
Palms pressed together, head bowed, just so,
My whispers of the Name
Follow a path of breath
From my finger tips forward,
Up and out to be
Heard by the wind, up and out,
Carried beyond, out to Space,
Returning as breath, and I breathe
A thousand constant sighs
Again and again. I should cry with joy.
Instead, I keep whispering the Name
Waiting until I can laugh again.

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