Walking paths desolate
Many a times the heart loses itself
Distant imaginary worlds remove one from what is nearer than near;
An easy forgetting of what is here and what is true
And suddenly, at the gentle touch of love comes a fierce rising
Of the sleeping heart
And the once glassy eyes now cry tears of previously restrained joy
Alive now alive always
To what is here and what is true of it
Knowing that it will stay.
Knowing that it has always been here.