Sometimes my heart is a child stomping his demands
at the feet of a distracted nanny.
Sometimes my heart is a song carried by a small voice.
Sometimes my heart is a psalm waiting to be read with closed eyes.
The heart has no bones.
The heart hunts like the moon.
It is the hot hard center of our bodies.
The heart is worn down like a stone in a brook.
The heart is a broken branch.
The heart is a fire in the wind.
The heart is our peculiar grace in the decay,
our talisman against the rush of time.
Thank you Silvia, https://diespringerin.blog/2017/12/04/eigentuemliche-anmut-des-verfalls-decays-curious-grace/
Yes, it is … the core of the matter. ain’t it?
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