There is no grace like the white bird that rises
from the singer’s throat, messenger of the soul
that arises when night is not yet finished
like a star, like a fragment of mist
I listen and listen and only tears flow
where the singer sings and the white bird rises
and the soul looks back, in parting wistful,
tenderly disconsolate
a little while and then at long last beholds
Forever.
mary angela douglas 19 january 2023
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