-The night’s whispers commence,
their hushed tones interspersed
between the flickering orbs of the sky,
the autumnal breath of the earth,
and the scattering leaves.
She sits there, my daughter,
in the way Mithra sat
under the Banyan tree;
or Gilgamesh, Siddhartha, or
even Jesus in a different iteration.
She sits there,
in that same form of mindful meditation,
under a white stucco sky,
its small protrusions, refracting
the light of flickering images.
The story unfolds in her eyes,
as it does in her heart; a child acts
in defense of the love its known,
against the intrusions of the illusion
of order.
She stands, my daughter, having achieved
some form of enlightenment, having found
a voice which echoes inside of her,
awakened by the echoing of
a child’s protest, before her.
In that moment, she is that child, she is
the child that she has always been,
but she is assured that the truth in her heart
is as great as any truth, and she raises her voice
and speaks for us all.