The Beautiful Country

Across the borders of my hearth,
to the boundaries of my brothers,
be what I'm not on a distant tongue,
say what I am in an idiom that's familiar.

Atop a lap as only a frame,
the hand's brush strokes that create
a fire in the form of a concept,
the beginnings of what could grow from a seed:

"All is what
we are not.
We are all
we seem not to be"

Now she bestows upon me
a wish granted: the greatness of serenity.
Blessedly, I take a bended knee,
to kiss the palm of the One,
of the All,
of SHE.