Somewhere in the space between the steps of a dancer,
The prayer of a devotee, and the sigh of a lover;
Lies the birthplace of hope.
Each step, each breath, each cry is a constant-
And unyielding desire to-
Climb the mountain of expectations.
In each of us, there is a movement in space,
Much like the humidity of the Troposhere-
That runs to the desert skies.
Whirling clouds of condensing will,
With tempests and tornados of desire-
Carving out love letters in the unsuspecting hills.
Could we cry at calamity when it often comes
From the deepest of desires?
Could we stop the movement of our tectonic hearts
As they shift and bend to the pressure of hope?
Even if we could stop the tides and turning of the globe;
Would we be justified in disdain-
At the movement of space within?