There once lived a man.
Whose face I don't remember.
My father's brother (I am told),
Whose kindness I can't forget.
A man of solitude,
quietness,
love.
(But these are all stories).
And his gentleness was a scream that was silenced,
as he perished under a broken heart...
Such a common, common, tragedy...
Why?
Shouldn't our minds comprehend it yet?
Our hearts are our greatest wonders.
They are noble gifts.
But they are the most delicate of all presents.
And time and time again we wrap them up and give them to those
who have no use for them;
or simply no desire.