Elizabeth
Elizabeth, yes that name has spoken through my heart of power
I've heard the name in a thousand hymns and seen the face
a trillion times through a thorny bush or some velvet flower.
And the miles of difference from Roman Greece to Paris France
of the Eiffel Tower is so little compared to the name I have thought.
And so long have you been called that word Elizabeth,
the word that drowns me in a deep brook of the forbidden woods,
that name that explodes to my tongue whenever said,
That word that's forever longed to lie aside of my own death bed.
So when I seek upon a silver star of moonless night,
or the rivers that forecast the silky sand a wetness to its texture
or the ways I look upon the day, the night and its own mixture
of sunrise and sunset, has the name been spoken followed within the wind.
And I ask why the word Elizabeth follows like a cat to a fly?
I've sought to look at the classic face of Elizabeth but no 'hello'
nor 'goodbye'? Just that silent word who strictly follows on by.
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