With a tender hand and sterile white gauze.
But cuts from a sword or pain not from me
Must be cared for by you singularly.
Do not for ask mercy, total, complete.
If you tread 'pon my hearts small feet
For my thoughts and hopes are young and tender
Marked "fragile" when given in quiet surrender.
Mend my broken wings of trust
Repair the rent, the torn, the bust.
Things that in the past were shattered,
With hope you try and repair what's tattered.
Again for you, I'll tend your pains,
But only those caused by my own refrains.
Try I will to sing you a tune,
B'neath the dusky, yellow-white moon.
In hope that the chorus of the heated song,
Will bring our healing, faster....strong.
Perhaps then with luted merriment and glee,
We shall dance again 'neath the sycamore tree.
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