Is it enough?
Alone you stand,
Artistry’s perfection,
Clad in searing brilliance.
You amaze the sight.
You are stone made into silk.
You are fire flowing smooth as milk.
Do you remember who it was that gave you life,
Who it was that touched brush to blazing palette
And painted you alive with fire, a mirror of the red sunset?
Born of a shallow groove, or perhaps a flickering stream,
Was it the wind that hollowed you, emptying you grain-by-grain?
Was water your sculptor, carving away your being in a flood of rain?
How long have you endured the gnawing winds in stony silence?
How long have you born time’s constant wear?
How much of you was there that now isn’t there?
In this life we say that beauty is only skin deep, that it’s what’s inside that counts.
But for you, you emptiness born of a wayward stream and an unassuming cleft,
You to whom nothing inside remains; for you, beauty is all you’ve got left.
Is it enough?
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