Lotus or the Like
A White flower, a colour emerge
Hidden in the night,
The Water ripples East to west
The Winds blow Upon our black pond,
As the night whispers, the voices softly speak
Happiness not weep,
Yet, as though bitterness Once, now sweet
As blackness Veils the night in Day,
I wonder at our love,
At our hidden friendship, of which we spoke,
Though not in audible noise, nor written word,
We Understand, even should we speak.
Happiness, don't now weep
Our friendship, will make Us sweetly weep.
for then, in the mists, we will speak.
And now ...
Smile sainted one
friend to be
(As with my way with this sort of poem, I signed it in my saint name: Philomena. In honour of my Patron...)
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