Here she took her final nap
with no fear, tears or wails.
A story book by her lap
likely of romantic tales.
Smile still lingered on her face
but the one that makes you weep.
Close yet so faraway gaze
that my soul forever keeps.
Let her past be my future-
my mother and my teacher.
They tell the way they have seen
the life passing through their doors.
And of places they have been
by wheels, rails or mighty oars.
But let me have my own tale
for my eyes seek their own choice.
Borrowed stories feel so pale
for these ears who heed no voice.
Let my senses flow and churn
as the pot of desire burns.
