Sublime Art

Hence stroking the quill of nature,
He wrote silence
And coherent whisper.
Turning nights into verses and words,
He wrote all that was unsaid,
All that was occult,
In the bosom of clouds and birds' feathers.

He first scribbled regrets,
Desires and sorrows.
Then adorned them with morning stars
And fragments of fragile hopes.
He filled the dreamy paper
With tears, sweat and smiles;
And composing a song of joy, peace and life,
He penned the poem of longing, of love, and of light.

Then he incensed his poetry
To the fragrance of his balmy breath,
Next kissed it and pulled it up
From nothingness.
The words then miraculously
Came to life;
And he saw her person,
Beauteous and divine,
Arising from the sphere of silvery paper;
Coming into physical world
With ethereal shine.

And what he achieved
Was beyond mortal experience.
His fancy, his lunacy
And his perfect audience;
Mused and sanctified
By eternal Providence,
She was the sublime art
Of his humble existence.