His New World
For all those fortunate enough to have witnessed the miracle of life.
Before you begin reading, for an enhanced experience, try listening to the poem along with Einaudi’s music: Low Mist Var. 2 (Day 1):
Quietude of the hospital garden, The father is lost in a myriad of thoughts, Walked, pondering without end, What the future held for his life’s plots.
Air, formless and light as a breeze, Reminded him of life’s swift ebb and flow, Time that flies, as swiftly as it may please, Just like destiny, where he’d soon go.
Water, a pure source of renewal, Mirrored hope and sincere love’s embrace, Would he be a father of devotion, crucial? Or repeat a past of void and grace?
Earth, a firm foundation of his being, Recalled scars from the days of old, An absent father, the pain he’d been seeing, Determined to break the cycle, he’d been told.
Fire, a burning flame of deepest passion, Raged within, warming his very core, Unanswered questions, in endless fashion, As he ascended the stairs, his thoughts did soar.
Corridor, time’s perception unwound, Like sand slipping through his fingertips, He remembered moments, lost and found, Yearning to be a father without eclipse.
Delivery room, hand in hand with his wife, Hope blossomed, radiant and so bright, Their daughter was born, the light of life, His new world, unwavering love, pure as light.
Father broke, the old cycle’s chain, Sowed a love that once was deeply hidden, In the analogy of air, water, earth, and flame, He found hope, his chosen path now ridden.
