T. Imaan Tretchicovmanicova

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