The rain falls to make her grow, But all she knows is the flood in her heart. Her bones break to make her strong, But paralyzed she sits singing Pity’s song.
Her voice permeates the souls of mere men, Voice within, loudly unseen. Her hands uplift the spirits of strong men, Stronger than an ox, with feet of deer. Her touch runs deep healing the wounds of brothers and thieves, friend and foe, a man she barely knows.
So when the rain falls to make her grow, Their pain is all she knows.
I lay here In the middle of march waiting for the night dew to greet me, In the middle of march waiting for mist to meet me. Waiting for calm- praying for the night breeze to take me- waiting for the sun to set; Praying for the beauty of calm and silence.