She asked me about my favorite piece of music, as hundreds of daises bloomed in her voice.
When she speaks, the syllables never quite touch the sides of her mouth,
They are soft as if they are the unnamed stuff between thought and expression,
Never carrying the dank texture of words reproduced,
Or harshness of inflexible opinions.
Each word comes out after awaiting its turn,
patient as desert remains without rain.
The lilt of her voice resurrects each word,
It makes you think of honey trickling down in a golden waterfall,
Or hundreds of birds soaring into the sky.
The innocence of it makes you weep,
the delight of it traps your sadness in a gentle embrace,
the raw honesty of it is the place where the homeless look for a home, and hopeless for a hope.
If only I could tell her that my favorite piece of music,
is the voice she asks this question in.
-Hira Khan
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