I may never find the right answer
To your face, to your hands, to your name.
This discovery will turn into a mad dancer
A timid and gentle flame
Of a candle. It flickers, shivers, and cries
When the night fills up with wild sounds
Of silent glances and desperate tries –
When lightening resounds.
Trees nod even if they disagree.
Strong winds make them comply.
My little candle still remains free
Under the pressures of the endless ‘why?’
© Marjorie H Morgan 2012