Having woken up this morning surprisingly to having the weight of almost a couple of years it felt, lifted off my being, my husband’s ginger cardamom brew and the sound of my folks back home talking excitedly of steamed rice cakes in fragrant turmeric leaves, I wrote a poem simply for me. There are no rice cakes in the poem though. It is based on the Vessel and the structures around it. The Vessel, that looks like a beehive, is an interactive artwork in New York City, that was imagined by Thomas Heatherwick and Heatherwick Studio. It is Comprised of 154 intricately interconnecting flights of stairs, almost 2,500 individual steps and 80 landings 
The pandemic isn’t over yet, but it is clearly to be defeated in the impassioned centering of self, suffused in compassion. We all had the opportunity to learn I believe of universal love, brotherhood; at least the poetry I came across suggested that or it may have only been a symptom of isolation, lockdown and the war time atmosphere. In any case, my faith feels slowly restored in the universal, in hopeful optimism. I love the temporal, the way the material can inhabit beautifully defined forms elevates my spirit yet, I also find comfort in seeking the transcendental. I feel, in the architecture of such wondrous things created by a group of delicate vulnerable humans, there must be something spiritual in the collaboration.
The soul must be a tuning fork,
for the pandemic flit past in a vibration.
Then all is still when the light gets the eyes
and the heart can define radiance,
simply in the clarity of lines and form.
The poetry of pathos is an epic elegy,
and of happiness, a paean to a heart beat.
A hive mind stilled to a limpid pool of reflection,
and a pall lifts, like the sun rises on glass held
in bezels of steel, on girders of strength.
Adored, blessed, loved, as clear as the day
is green. Time can be a blur in a cloudy soul
catharsis but the blue is simply sky, and
a warm heart's the colour of light. Structure
has wheels that are meant to turn.