Mother of inspiration,
she moves me to the well of deep love.
She is the poem that runs from my quill,
the dawning muse that awakens tired night
and stirs the soft bees from their flowery beds.
Burning fire at the heart of the temple,
she awakens mother loving wisdom
in lost sleeping hearts.
Children cling to her leg
knowing that she is the mother of lovers,
the spirit that watches over them by night.
Most angelic voice of the feminine mysteries,
she is the storyteller
who caresses the words of the bards,
from lips as tender as bloomings of the rose.
All words fail to tell of her grace
and the mysteries held in her every breath.
Yet the gods and poets strive to tell of her beauty in vain,
as the words fall like petals
tossed at her soft perfect feet.
They sing her songs
that the world might understand living divinity,
that the poem might give a glimpse of the pathway
illuminated by the footseps of a sacred priestess.
The generosity of her presence
fills the lives of all that walk in her midst.
Mother of care, sister of truth, daughter of dark and light,
she marries the broken heart of time in her every motion,
her black wings illuminating the dark
way with glints of rainbow as she turns.
She forever lives in the temples of long forgotten memory,
with one foot in our world
that we might for a moment remember.
With gratitude the sages bow before her beauty
in silence at last,
knowing that the words that they reach for in vain
are spoken by her very presence.