You who make the word a knife, plunging it without a thought,And in the evening lay your hand upon my heart.Searching for its beats inside meTo waken desires, to sow quietness with it...
Tell me, please, what flowers bloom in this world,When the north wind blows against their bodies and petals?What beautiful day in life ever buddedWhen a cold storm comes down from the mountains?
What heart beats softly, sweetly in life,When the soul is struck by a word of frost?The seasons of the soul do not turn like pages in a bookWhen the snow in the heart has piled up high.
What house of the soul stays warm,When the hearth of kindness remains unlit?When the door of the heart stands open,And out of fear is ready to flee.
Please, do not reach out your heavy hand,For it stifles the breath of a good heart.The heart is not a musical instrument, a song,For you to play with, whenever you desire..
