Made of virtues
she is a handful of water mingling within the Great River,
flowing along with her Master, bringing life to the dead, dead land.
isn't she beautiful when she sings to me, dancing over the
Broken bough in her poetic shyness and oblivion,
perhaps telling me of the joys and pains during the quests
towards Contentment.
Over the broken bough she seems to shed tears of love,
and grief, falling onto the ground,
hoping to lay a kiss on a thirsty root or shiny seed
that may bear honey-laden apples blushing in their beauty.
but this is how, i, a meagre amount of stagnant water capped
in a clay jar watch as my virtuous comp