Chapter Text
I look at my hands,
Rough and dry,
Made to nurture,
Instead in them I cry
But the tears which pool
Give life to the soil,
That poor small bed
Over which I toil
I dream of its beauty,
The plant which grows,
Only for me to see,
There, but who should know?
How often I water it,
Keep it near my heart,
This plant which grows
From the thought of a spark
A way to let me feel,
To let me understand
But who should know?
How much love do I earn
which is secondhand?
And it grows to a tree
Strong, mighty,
No one to see it,
No one, except me.