By Christina Gomes
Is the mortal heart too grave to speak of love?
In drops of maroon, on the silent waters by the Chapel.
The synagogue of life waves in the maiden smile.
The chrysanthemums portrayed in royal art,
Kisses the journey of a thousand miles.
Away in golden touch my dreams craft the flavom.
Away in solemn prayers,
Farewell sings the merchants-
“Come home, my child, come
O look, the guardian awaits.
Come home, my child, come
Before the daybreak,
The moon will wait.”
The sun blooms like the martyr in sight.
Remorse in blood, yet his radiance is bright.
Marvelled in grand stature, the valiant yet believes.
Holding lavenders of love, his iron breast still grieves,
“To my beloved”, he whispered,
The stardust still flickering,
On wrinkles of youthful mirth, the memories still fluttering.
Kissing goodbye, “Shall meet in heaven some night,
When remembrance rekindles in balconies in delight,
To say hello to the world,
Perhaps reborn the Son of light.”
"Awake, my child", sing soft to the cradles of night.
"O bless this feather heart, for he reigns the prudent sight.
Like the night born amidst the Titans did fight.
To name you what, ‘O mother’, you'd say,
‘Should I see, indeed one day this world in righteous light!’”
"O ignite my Son, the heavens did cry.
O brighten my brethren, the angels did sigh.
O lighten my Father, the mortals did pray.
Oh, unite my Saviour, divinity with ashes of clay.”
And then the universe, the tabernacle so mighty dost write,
The beauty in the cathedral of that golden light.
If righteous be the love in art, then death relives the testimony,
The Symphony of Heart.