when you murmur the name of the holy –
                          whomsoever you douse in that light –
                       do you feel the air still
                or the waters calm?

                               grace and existential peonies gather at your feet
                           as the perpetual loop of stars shutting their eyes
                                       and reawakening on the other side of the cosmos
                           attending to the needs of the royal and lush

                 you are favoured, star kin, and the moon dances on your brow
                      each pillowed step another in the right direction
                                each cherished petal a gold thread in your tapestry
                          zither in the hall, harp in the observatory

                 and you call down the heavens when tears fall
                          wishing you were in the embrace of your ancestors
                         hoping your mortality has brought them honor
                     praying your birthright has been given its justice.