Upon the sand will I not build my house for when rains descend and floods overflow, the winds will howl and beat upon its walls and it will crumble, great will be its fall
I need no chandeliers, nor porcelain china, hand-painted with silver and gold, no dinner dainties with a fattened ox, content am I to dine on herbs with love.
I seek a shelter strong with warmth and light where rains and winds and floods can’t topple down and love burns bright in apple wood hearth fires and nightingale songs fill the evening air —-
Upon solid rock will I build my house, there will I find emeralds and rubies.
Teach me to number my days the way You number the hairs on my head, the way You are mindful of petals and sparrows as they fall with the leaves in the mist of autumn rain —
was it only this morning when my hair was in pigtails, as I dressed my dolls in pink dresses, dreamt of a fairytale prince upon a white stallion awaiting to take me to a castle hidden in emerald forests —
towards noon when I felt butterflies fluttering in clandestine chambers of my youthful heart, I met my first love and time was suspended, drowned in ivory clouds and endless blue oceans —
i can still feel the afternoon warmth when the children came and their laughter mingled with the melody of songbirds, the hum of restless cicadas —
at sunset my love and I rowed the silent rivers, built a bonfire upon the sand, held each other’s hand for warmth —
and now at twilight wrapped in the lavender glow, i treasure the dwindling vestiges of tender moments, the faint beloved song that will remain when evening falls.
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