Untitled
The scent of promise in the air,
That winter soon will fly.
Birds sing with overflowing hearts,
Beneath an azure sky.
Blindly stillness seeks it's place,
From winter's frigid throne,
Hiding in the storm's cruel eye,
Unaware of pain to come.
Music muted by years of pain,
Minstrels play with tears,
Forgive if strains unrecognized,
Meet with these deafened ears.
The calm that soothes the wayward heart
That refuge seeks from care,
And mirth that lightens any load,
Await my presence there.
YLE
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