A Beautiful Mind

A Beautiful Mind

In the quiet lanes of thought, a garden grows,
Each idea a seed that flowers in the mind’s heart.
From the roots of curiosity, the mind’s colour blooms,
A tapestry of colour stitched with faint, curious art.

The heart of thought does not quicken at the flash
Of a bright summer’s sun; it hums to a softer tune.
It remembers the quiet hush of a London evening,
And stands still, as if to speak to an unseen moon.

A thought in its splendour is a silent theatre,
Where actors of wonder play the unseen fates.
A stage set not by candlelight but by the mind’s own quill,
Where the script writes itself as the horizon wafts.

There is no rush to finish a page or finish a line,
The mind does organise thoughts into endless grace.
Each idea, like a traveller on the periphery of the cosmos,
Finds purpose to keep the swirl of wonder in place.

The mind’s beauty is less in its loud applause,
More in the quiet, intricate dance of scenes.
It realises that the world is a soft marble carved by time,
And we are but small carvings, part of it all, it seems.

In the heart of night, under starlit tape,
The mind sketches possibilities – a gentle plot.
It’s not a map for foreign lands or an endless highway,
But a garden of hope, where we connect the dot.

The quiet moments, when the chaos dissolves,
When thoughts settle like a fine wine at the table,
That is where the mind’s secret brilliance shines: 
A subtle, golden place that is always able.

And so we cherish this beautiful mind:
A theatre, a garden, a bright lighthouse in fog.
It reminds us of the beauty that is forever in rhythm,
A quiet cab of wonder that, in its own rhythm, carries the world.