The pattern of your speech is in my ear
Although I do not hear you speak out loud
Shall I say ear or is it heart that bears
The form that made your speech have its right sound?
Wherever in myself I find your trace
I long to keep it even when I grieve.
As though, because I do not see your face,
I never wish by sound to be deceived.
And at the end you did not speak at all
Like the baby while inside its nest.
Yet with your eyes you made a final call
As contented as a baby joined to breast.
And so you went, but left your patterns here.
So with fine prosody, I feel you near
How my heart sings 