We’ve added to suffering. Let’s subtract.
There’s mathematics with our every act.
A building clothed in vines has charm for me:
our harming of Earth could turn to harmony.
Significance is not just scaled in size:
the universe is vast, but you are wise.
As you breathe music, full of sentiment,
you are—at any age—Love’s instrument.
They do their work but not in business suits,
probing through the dirt for moisture, roots.
We see ourselves as separate yet know
as foliage from the tree of life we grow.
From dust of stars, our bodies coalesce.
Differently than them, we shine no less.
The senses can’t perceive where the spirit goes
like you can’t hear a symphony with your nose.
Your beauty hasn’t launched a thousand ships
but has been sipped in glances, countless sips.
Mario A. Pita