Your voice, swollen with God,
makes my eyes brim with tears,
my throat clench with joy.
An old woman now,
sallow and weary,
sharp and withered,
your voice now weak, hollow,
dry as wind through a November field of brittle corn husks.
Yet it lives on into eternity,
ripe with youth and fullness,
pulsating gold,
its tones ring out your immortality,
beauty carrying on through time
like life that twists and transforms,
never ceasing, but
passed on, generation after generation,
finding new crevices
to house its rapture.
