Life, give back to a wounded heart! or breathe
that I might fill my breath, and find some rest
with the inner peace of a drying lake--
we sleep awake, not silent, as the dead.
And how might the rage of a wounded heart
find tranquil waters to soothe the soul, neither
love or hope shall take us far upon the road
that stretches ever 'til an end, unknown.
We have no place to lay our hearts, no shelf
or box, or tools of trade to mend the cracks,
or instructions lent, or simple truths to
lead us back through summers of time, ill spent.
Do we sleep alone? What has love to show
a tuneless note, or restless words in silence.