The Heart
Bestow upon the heart the spirit of our creation,
for held in its structure is the meaning of ourselves;
Often words are just a sanctimony intercourse between passion and hate
And what is deep on our imagined belief
Beats calmly now a heart instilled
With the solitude of the knowledge of itself;
But forgotten are reflections, like malignant oracles
Held in the mystery of life
Oh let us be kind in the worth of our innocence
For innocent remains the centre of ones existence,
It waits forever in trail and tribulations
and the sound from that beating heart
In a spirit shall be held the creation of its purity,
The purest thing 'tween heaven and earth;
In the passion of the soul is the heart of life
That beats to the breadth of itself
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