I cannot place the words inside my heart;
They speak without the language of my mind.
And no translator ever faced a part
The difficulty of this certain kind.
I think my spirit longs for something warm;
But that is too abstract a feeling, true:
Perhaps it longs for shelter from the storm...
I doubt it likes all that it's been put through.
My soul has far too much to just express;
It must be a headache to the list'ners.
Its potency is void to the masses.
O, how my heart moans; it is prisoner.
     Distant it is feeling; words cannot say
     Just how far my heart has been pushed away.