Her roots have grown through
granite slabs,
scattered across wild fields,
amid lavish lavender
and woven stone,
she will find her home.
For willingly she does come
and faintly will she go,
her will is the will of the sun
ten thousand times ago.
And within her epic eyes
lie dormant wings,
eclipsing.
As a robustious wail waits,
for her to breathe out with a
sickle’s swing.