Lost in the margins
of my own story
and among the symbols
from your divine eye,
what shall become of me?
of my own story
and among the symbols
from your divine eye,
what shall become of me?
Seemingly between worlds,
by halves and sevens,
guided by feathers and stones,
sands from time’s shores
and infinite music,
this is where I breathe.
by halves and sevens,
guided by feathers and stones,
sands from time’s shores
and infinite music,
this is where I breathe.
The music calls me,
beckoning me to hear,
then to follow the traces
of your flowing presence,
the song of my soul.
beckoning me to hear,
then to follow the traces
of your flowing presence,
the song of my soul.
© 2012 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen
