KAGUYA

I share this rapture, this sweetened ache,
Not merely for her beauty’s sake,
For time is cruel, and roses fade,
And gold turns pale in mortal shade.

But if you watched her as I do,
You’d see a spirit rare and true:
A mind alive, refined, aware,
With wit that dances through the air.

No hollow pride, no poisoned grace,
No cold ambition in her face.
Her heart is simple, bright, sincere,
The kind that makes the heavens near.

And sometimes, yes… I break apart.
The grief comes flooding through my heart.
My throat grows tight, my vision blurs,
And tears fall down like ancient prayers.

Yet what am I beneath her skies?
A tired man with aging eyes.
A bureaucrat, a lawyer worn,
A minor soul the world ignores.

Though still I write, though still I play
Small songs to keep the dark away.
A Brazilian dreamer, lost between
What life has been and might have been.

And she… God knows what she may be.
No language offers clarity.
Perhaps the ancient scriptures knew
Of beings such as her, and true.

For some were never born to stay
Entirely bound to human clay.
Perhaps the name the prophets gave
Was simply this:

An angel made.