The morning chirping in the garden is one voice down today
The harmony is the same to the gardener but not the birds
She’s just muted not dumb; freed from the curse of her buds
She’s not envious of her friends that weep beside her clay.
Her wings ascend higher with every flap
To a place where everything is possible
Quite quickly she becomes invisible
As she embarks on her final lap.
A home is forsaken in quest for Rest
The worms and fishes below now distasteful
Snakes feast on her eggs, but it doesn’t pound on her chest
It’s beyond her ability to focus; it’s not because she’s mindful.
The routes are quite unfamiliar but the destination certain
Nothing in her life of clay seemed to matter again
But at the gates of Rest, the books were opened
Then it mattered all that had happened.
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