Almost as if sifting, reveals
A thing so uplifting.
To the constant-mending,
My heart,
To you I'm lending.
Love,
The nimble sparkle
On winter's cheek,
Simmering in Summer's heat,
Has left me growing fond,
But contemplating all night long.
"For what exactly does my heart
So greatly long?"
I ask.
"Why are the number of saddened lives
Growing so tall?"
The image drawn in my heart
Shows of a mural, that was
Aesthetically painted,
Eagerly waited to have a start.
But this image,
Beautiful, yes,
Seems often fleeting,
As if merely teasing.
To you I respond,
"Let your heart grow fond.
Love's not a dove who'll
Build a nest, then give it up
Without permanent rest."
