Never once was there a barren land called love,
Never a man at war who knew not the power of peace,
Not a breeze that did not carry the directives of doves,
Never a fire that let our hearts freeze.
Barren lands only take; never give,
The hopeful clouds rain their elixir still,
Love is a land where life lives,
And sheer showers ripple as rills.
Men at war are puppets of power,
Their hearts seem fashioned like sharp stones,
But the truth they hold in a sceptre,
And of love are made their bones.
The breeze is a scarf that sheathes the world,
And carries warmth to places of piercing cold,
Called many names but still the same word,
All heralding the glory of life’s true gold.
Fires thaw even the most frigid frosts,
Softening something that has turned to stone,
Showing the way home to souls who are lost,
Keeping warm company to those who are alone.
It is not a broken promise that,
Shatters like fragile glass,
It is not a sharp sabre that,
Draws out blood by the mass.
It is not poison that slowly kills,
But an antidote that allays all,
It is not an ache or an ill,
That makes a heart bawl.
It is not a finger-gun at the ready,
To blame or burn anyone,
It is not a toy that is handy,
For when one wants some fun.
It is a universal force,
And also the entire universe,
Of all existence it is the source,
It is a form of God – not a curse.
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