Somewhere, my love, I heard the rustling leaves,
The songs of birds,
My mind their music perceived.
Oh somewhere still! the silent call of God
Midst all the noise,
"Come, follow me!" called my Lord.
Follow the Lord! He guides you to the best,
Follow him on
Till you reach the place of Rest.

Somewhere, I heard the laughter of the flowers,
Gentle their words,
Lingered they on, many hours.
Oh somewhere still! the silent call of God
Midst all the noise,
"Come, follow me!" called my Lord.
Follow the Lord! He guides you to the best,
Follow Him on
Till you reach the Place of Rest

Look up
A poem orbits around the moon
And a poet dangles on metaphors
This hazy starry night

our lips will never meet
nor our fingers intertwine
and so bless my dreams
for indulging what's not mine

She keeps songs
locked away in boxes
like secrets.
She will take them out
like postcards
to help her remember
the feeling of
a different time,
a different person
by her side.
She likes the one
that makes her
eyes close
to see the lights.
She smiles at
the one that  
makes her stand
up on tiptoes,
the one that
helps her forget
she doesn’t know
what to do
with her hands.

The tune
will carry her.

Like it did
the times when
voices broke
like a heart.
When instruments’ strings
would snap
and hurt.

A king is a king
With a very heavy crown.
And that king is a king
Until his crown falls down.
And when that crown
Falls to the ground,
The king is not a king
But instead he is the clown.