An Ode to Joys

A palette of muted, pastel shades,
Framed by an endless blue sky,
Washed-out watercolour hues,
Awe-inspiring to the eye.

The eye of the beholder,
In which all beauty lies,
The flaming, fiery setting orb,
The careening sea-birds that fly.

The birds, they fly among the clouds,
Among cotton puffs, they vanish from sight,
Now a shadow; now none,
On the sand so fine and white.

The sand that numbers as the stars,
And forms castles upon the shore,
The tiny grains that defy the tide,
But fail with every roar.

The tempestuous tide moves forth and back,
Forever and a day,
Just like the Sun who gives up his ground,
So the Moon may have her say.

The Moon amidst the starry field,
A sight seen often, never enough,
Like a single white lotus in an emerald lake,
Like a diamond in the rough.

Such a joyous sight to see,
The cold stone and a maiden fair and cold,
But joyful still, is the stone on her finger,
Encircled by a ring of gold.

This then, is my ode to joy,
Of all we refuse to see,
But painful still, are unfulfilled dreams,
Of all we refuse to be.