He remains there...
as static as a statue
proudly boasting that
the breathtakingly beautiful ones,
are made of him.

But ah! he says,
reminiscing beauty,
there is something...
more blossoming, more alluring
than even the intricate of
all sculptures.

Something that gives him life,
gives him fragrance,
and a meaning for existence.

He looks up at the blue,
with longing eyes,
eyes that so much want her,
her to extend the cool arms
that embrace him, enriches him
that makes him worthy,
that makes him complete.

Now he asks the possessive father,
the white foaming milk,
spilled over the velvet blue,
for her hand.
He pushes him, to open up,
to let go of the young maid,
who is waiting to burst open
to lose herself in his arms.

For it is her, that invokes beauty,
that makes him colourful,
fertile, prosperous
and strong of all things.

He knows that and so do I
and as I stand under and watch their divine romance,
I know that is is their oneness,
that makes the breeze blow,
that cools my flustered face,
that makes me awestruck,
that makes me cry.
And then...
rails my thought to God,
who knew the mountain,
and so did he know me.