The Mirror
I come to you with the grime of an ancient past So sticky that the waters of your grace Alone can dissolve it. I ask to be cleansed first so that then you can hold me. You embrace me as I am and in doing so cleanse. Strange is your magic that makes every bit of grime I offer you into gleaming gold And dims my own reflection in the mirror, Ushering me towards that longed for return to innocence When nothing of me is left to be reflected. When the mirror everywhere blossoms into only one face: The face of the beloved. - Anahita Sanjana (India)