"sonnet2"

your hair, your face, your lips, your hands
this mirror made these distant lands
your whispered words are like a lyre
plucked at night by beauty's fire
the path you tread is like a lake
a pebble falls and leaves a wake
the stars at night pavane the sky
the planets spin in their reply
two hearts, two souls a path not started
this past and present life departed
all time and space will slip away
as all your splendour will display
that you and I may be as whole
and watch as we invert the bowl

`T. Imaan Tretchicovmanicova