Like the power of light to dawn;
As strong as tones of sad songs.
Vents a soul through sensations;
The chest makes improvisations.
From the distance of crying eyes.
So far the bird flies, and thoughts
Brings back a cherished suffering;
Being an effect of the purest Love.
Known as longing; a rapt, sad ache
For all whose gone by ‘hurt or love’.
It is “the rebirth” of the mud’s dust,
The mud which the rain didn’t take.
— Ricardo Sexton