Poems come from passions and tears,
Our lusts, compulsions and our fears,
When emptiness or loneliness appears.
Poems are not oft born of comfort,
Nor of peace, nor satisfaction nor rest.
Poems for one who loves deep and true,
And for whom we have true love, too,
Are poems of the heart, not of words,
For words have not been made which
Express such a state of existence shared
By one not only whose heart is true,
But whose soul and spirit belong, too,
To us, and us to that one so, so dear.
So darling, when poems do not come,
'Tis because they are already present,
Abiding in heart and mind and soul,
Crying out in unspoken words to you,
In sighs, and moans, and silent peace.
In such way, my heart recites every day
That I am God-given to be with you.
