Is poetry possible without comparisons,
When love is the heart of the verses I weave?
Yet calling this poetry’s simply embarrassing,
A sorrowful rhythm my thoughts can’t deceive.

You’re sunlight and soft winds, I’m quails gently roaming,
A quiet flock grazing in meadows of blue.
These words feel too simple, so pages I’m tearing,
Yet still I hold fast to the dream I pursue.

1992