What do I call it if not beauty?
Though, you are not the play of colors
in the sky with rising sun my one year old.
When I keep your soft, small right palm,
yes it has to be the right palm for reading,
with mine, and look at the three thicker,
longer lines with their tributaries,
narrower, shorter, many;
when I take pride at the similarities,
and am happy with the differences,
then I can see only beauty.
When you O little one, climb my back
to ride horse and gleefully shout tica-tica-tica
in your own tongue, and bend a little time and again
to look at me
and smile when our eyes meet;
When I rock you gently to sleep,
stroke your forehead softly, comb
your soft, thin hair with my fingers,
touching your scalp with all the affection,
that I never knew was dammed in there somewhere,
that my being can hold, dripping
from my fingertips as blessing,
as love, upon you all the time,
I can see only beauty.
I’m not very sure whether I know
what beauty is.
Let’s say beauty is
what it does to us,
and call you beautiful,
for you make me feel blessed,
just by your presence, at least sometimes.
Angels, even God, cannot do better than that.
No, they can’t make me feel blessed in their presence,
even sometimes.