Thy Rare Gift (Poem)
Doubting tendencies in suspension
For how long, who knows?
Not even I, who's in possession
Knows how thy "time" goes.
Every core longs for merely a taste
Of thy land's rare gift.
Though for thy sake, make waste not, nor haste
Nor thyself's adrift.
All the world says: "Life's but a segment
Of downfalls and dreams."
So are these fits of merriment
By one's lovely beams.
Soaring through skies of studded silver
Keep thee sane; stray not to night's shiver
Or downhearts' ever.
Now, go flee to where thy heart takes thee
And feast over love
With whom this rare gift is meant to be;
None's less nor above.