She wears her motto inscribed
in golden letters inside her head,
walking through walls, invisible;
seeing the world as never before.
Grandmother, mother, wife, daughter, sister –
roles that defined her changing like litmus paper.
She’s not Charlie’s Angel just her own;
not Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty,
Savitri, Sita, or Draupadi.
She is Lady Lazarus –
rising phoenix-like, wondrous.
It takes a lifetime to be oneself,
translate the world in one’s own voice –
A kind of miracle really,
true creativity does not come cheaply.
It cannot be bought nor sold,
it’s a gift held in trust, not foretold.
It appears unexpectedly if it does
sometimes after years of patient preparation,
Of expecting nothing in return,
but ready to commit to a solitary vocation.
Often there’s magic if not recognition,
When words are born in ecstasy
swirling, mysterious arcs of light,
a celebration of colours, aurora borealis –
language, music, meaning in a trance dancing.
