The Heart Song.

The heart that is weary
now holds a head that
has not bowed before.

Who saw the prisoned heart -
the bars of the prison
or the head.

The breeze is ever so slow
welcoming the rays
on which nightingales sway.

The existence and it's earth
can sing the song now
that the heart desires so.

The bird that is my
heart
never will ever care
if its autumn or
the end of spring.