A lonely man, broken,
Crawls across the grass.
In his hands but one thing:
A heart made of glass.

His belongings were air . . .
The rest he left behind;
He crept slowly in search,
As time kept its bind.

As he crawled inch by inch,
Time passed the man by.
When he stopped for a moment,
To see his end growing nigh.

There, at last, he broke down;
His love yet to see birth --
When he knelt up from the ground,
And cried to the earth:

"What will be of this heart, what is it worth?!"

He tightened his grip,
On what he ever held dear --
But his grip became loose,
As his death became near.
Withering away, he let one plea be known:

"What will be of this heart? For this heart has no home!"