On her gravestone,
in the first letter
of my mother’s name,
a drop of dew.
Or is it a tear?
Uncertainty is the womb
of 10,000 things.
At midnight a scent of jasmine,
at dawn a fragrance of
sunbeams in lavender.
The vow of my wound
is not to heal,
but to stay open
like an ancient eye.
Even grief is a breath
of the Beloved.
If you don't know how
to be hollow,
how will you be
filled with music?
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