In the mist of being
You are her reasons to smile
Softly and pacifying across.
In the subtle lifting of her hopes
You are the excess of her content
Enigmatically beautiful and clear.
In the world of fear and solitude
You are the pouring rain
Under which she dances her feelings loud.
In the grave of her soul
You are the dry leaves rustling
Bringing her breath alive.
In the oblivion being of you
You are the gems studded on her pride
Conceited of which she hides smiles.
In the coming posterity
You’ll be her long miles
And she, of azure, would consort you right.