These secret gardens are watered by tributaries of pain
That cut through the wild meadows that fall from the edges of the mountains,
Untamed.

The waters run deep in the fertile dirt
And though they slice hard with the knife-edges of agony,
They nourish the most beautiful
Worlds;

Fields of the rarest wildflowers and thick forests of enchanted aspen and pines.

The pain.

It grows terrible things in the darkness
But look,
Look how beautiful your wilderness is
In the light.

I place my hands on your heart.
Inside, there is a small child,
Crying,

Shattered by violence

And I am just trying to say
That all of your secret gardens of pain,
Those hidden corners in which I played,

Never, ever, held any shame.

The depths of your brokenness and the strength of your love for me
Felt just the same.

I grew in your meadows of sorrow and your tears they watered my spirit

Like rain.