Maria wandered
without a guide,
and made, Maria,
my joy abide.
But within Sara’s gaze
the world grows still—
and Maria’s name
sinks deep in will.
There is no more Maria
in breath of life,
in fate’s soft song,
in alleyway strife.
But hidden like shadow
in the rarest of light,
a flicker remains:
her name is Sara.
A cold wind calls itself Maria,
waves of love wherever she’d be.
But I alone knew, as the tide pulled her far,
that the name that burned deep — was Sara.
Maria now sleeps
in a feathery bed,
in the darkest part
of my heart, unsaid.
But it’s Sara who dreams
where the world folds in two,
in silence so deep,
in devotion true.
There are many Marias,
with comings and goings,
Marias that lived,
Marias unknowing.
But the one never shown,
the one that won’t sever,
the one time disguises—
that one is Sara.
Saintly Marias,
and Marias in bloom,
verses of old
that time resumes.
Yet among them all,
of faith and lore,
none rise above
my Sara’s core.
Maria is the chant
in every prayer’s tone.
But Sara is the name
etched in my own.