While everything
Was a field about to bloom,
More than teardrops
Watered each root,
More than pain
Was felt from the thorns,
More than our lives
Grew to become worn.
While everything
Was about to be born,
More than eyes
Were ever opened,
More than cries
Grew into panic,
More than a hand
Was being comforted.
While everything
Was nestled in heart,
More than a love
Made its holy vow,
More than a flood
Was laid out to the promise
That each word
Would rest upon the strongest flesh.
When nothing
Is held in this hand,
When everything
Is given to the land,
Everything
Blooms upward,
Without eyes to see the wings,
Without cheeks to feel
The falling feathers.
Modern Romanticism 