You are the balm—
meant to mend
what darkness tore.
Your eyes—
they soothe the scape
of wounds unseen.
Jasmines bloom
where pain once lay—
their breath,
an ointment for my ache,
a white nectar
from the wound of shadows.
The garden,
unspoiled by winter,
still as white—
the cradle of stars,
the calm before the waves,
whiteness
before colour.
Where all things carry
scent from the heart,
and hearts
carry scent from hands—
and hands,
from the scintillant deed
born of your touch,
from the milky ways
of jasmine yards—
Let your senses spill.
Let them pour
into this presence,
where jasmines speak
what cannot
be said.
