The Writers Voice
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Distant bells, wind chimes, sprinkling
Clear, crystal pure, faint, soft and slight.
Such warmth, in this hushed amber chamber,
A petite cough and whispers skitter so light.
Slippered feet slip serenely over strewn matting
Towards the legs of the cradle and three stone urns.
Mice scatter under a door where white light steals in.
Blue smoke snakes from pitchers in which incense burns.
Bowls of water, cloths, and oils on an ancient table
Are arranged and cared for by a Lady of splendour.
She is darkly hooded, adorned with swaying shawls.
The peaceful ambience holds still, calm and slender.
A poorly attired, smiling Man, bends over the cradle,
Whispers, rearranges, gently touches, steps quietly away.
Under the burning Sun, outside, three men of wealth
Stand statuesque before the door. They kneel, to pray.
The Man opened a shuttered window, turned and saw
Sunlight piercing amber, illuminating where the Baby slept.
The Lady carried water, fresh cloths and a sprig of wild flowers,
When beholding this sight, welling with wonderment, She wept.
The cradle rocked gently, hushed expectation, the Baby awoke.
By the open window, the lady held Him to her breast.
The Man by her side, they captured the view of this, Godís day.
As the Baby suckled and the desert winds blew Ė the Earth was blessed.
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