Quiet, quiet; silence of my soul.
In whom is longing, long as life unlived.
Oh sweet disposition by nature played and all,
all life, all life, becomes like clay crafted.
Bound to be broken if held by staggering hands,
Bound to crack if handled by unsteady hearts.
Yet in my little beating heart whose trails,
Are thorns, and briers, rule cruel fetters and hurts.
The sound that all is frail and, but fails.
Yet beats my sad, sad soul, like an army drum.
En I match daily like a soldier as I hum.
Tomorrow is mine, today is lost, today is lost.
Yet I longed to have today, the most.