That doleful dignity stood defiantly like John the Baptist, Gracefully like perfect stillness, perfectly. That language echoed clarity and antiquity Like the clear sharp outline of a midnight moon, Smiling upon the Crown like pomp and majesty.
Oceans can rise in leaps and bounds, they say, Like a lyrical sonnet piercing the heart.
Perhaps they can. Back then that voice was a youthful Harp or a sitar faintly playing, falling like the stars. But it wasn't your English consonants clashing With my foreign vowels that touched me then, Or the structured restraints of dangling chords That appealed to my senses. Instead, It was that deep resonance, that rare presence Of a different world hanging like a poem in my class. There was that voice out of my touch, in another league, Like the man on the moon, magnetic as the Rosetta Stone Or Kaaba in the East, filtering through time Like ambiguity invading my culture and youth.