The Lucky One

The world saw her dance with the music’s light,
The wind heard her sing the morning’s hymn,
The fireflies played with her in the shadows of the night,
The bats claimed she sees what we can’t in the dim.
She always talks to her reflection on the windows,
She’s someone we call a woman who lost her mind,
For in her head, she’s someone else’s widow,
But I think it’s the product of the world being too unkind.
We really don’t know what happened to her,
We just see her cry and laugh, laugh and cry,
Just being contented and finding joy in the bad weather,
But not knowing her, we can’t judge her on the questions of ‘why’.
Seeing her, I guess she’s one of the lucky ones of the crowd,
But hey! It’s just me thinking out loud.

* this was an original sonnet inspired by an entry in the CCA Arts Festival entitled "Tagpi"

One day I wrote her name upon the strand by Edmund Spenser

One day I wrote her name upon the strand,

But came the waves and washed it away:

Again I wrote it with a second hand,

But came the tide, and made my pains his prey.

Vain man, said she, that dost in vain assay

A mortal thing so to immortalize!

For I myself shall like to this decay,

And eek my name be wiped out likewise.

Not so (quoth I), let baser things devise

To die in dust, but you shall live by fame:

My verse your virtues rare shall eternize,

And in the heavens write your glorious name;

Where, whenas death shall all the world subdue,

Our love shall live, and later life renew.