She weans from her flute
notes that fly and dance
They speak of things
one hardly dares to dream
Beauty exquisite –
But she plays on
quite unaware of the rapture
created by her nimble art

A three-year-old skips down the street
Her hair bobs and flows –
a golden wind in her wake
The earth behind her
quakes in agitated joy –
But she just skips –
quite unaware of any uproar
or of the rapture
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  created in a racing heart