For the One Who Moves Me
I see her sitting down with her arms resting on her thighs, looking graciously at the endless point of the ocean waves. From a few steps away, I pause, staring at her divinely sculpted figure, unlike everything I’ve ever known. “The remedy my soul has longed for,” I mutter to my small stature. She feels like a song, sung by poets on parched land, holding the patience of time itself, awaiting the lover’s return home. Such beauty feels unfamiliar to me. She feels like a movement, danced by little dancers rejoicing life, free as fresh air, drifting through the breath of priests and sages, calm as the endless night beneath a full moon’s glow. If poetry were a stack of beautified words, She is one in motion. A pursuit that never wearies its creators, a craft renewed with every repetition, written by a pen that never runs out of ink. Her essence leaves me awed. A reminder of eternal truths, testaments etched into the soul of time— a vitality untouched by the hand...