spark 6

oh, miss crystal hands,

why do you weep?

don't you know my human ears

hear your very note?

that siren song fogs my hesitation;

your very tears are the art I yearn.

pearly gems ornate my path;

breathe the salty passion;

I see the new horizon

your very presence has given me.

how can I repay that holy blessing?

oh, but miss crystal hands,

so cold, so fragile,

like fresh snow softly resting,

or ice glazing still the lake;

yet I feel your sun-kissed heart

warming my lips when they touch the pure palm.

If I had the art to draw the golden waves

I'd be cursed tenfold, 

but not by your tongue,

by those fools who can't

(and never will) see the heavens.

that life masterpiece

will lift me of the sin of praising

you like God,

clearly in my mind,

sweetly in my lips,

dearly in my heart.

we, whom are made of the same rib,

can really ring not that feeling?

how am I so different of the sinner

who swallowed the Fruit?

miss crystal hands,

if I cease to hear your symphony,

would it be for my deaf ears,

or my tired heart

not abided by these laws?