Poem to the Heart

My heart was not supposed to be thus. It had had no intention of developing fear of those eyes. No, it had needed face no perils, it had had none before it. Therefore, immediately after the cloth had been removed, gravity began to sink its unclawed hands; its beauty - gone.

It was once as healthy as a young heart can be. Fresh, wild, charmed by every snowdrop it would see. Yet it was not its season. The petals had been revealed to the world too soon, the blossoms should not have dared come forward. The strength of the flower,namely its perfume and delightful decorative potential, was taken away by insensibility.

My heart, though incomplete from that point on, was still a blossoming beast; in beauty, never to be equalled; in artlessness, never to be beaten. But what the world did to it was as unexpected as it was irrecoverable.

They cut its claws off. The single manner of defence left, once the petals had been ripped off, was gone; my heart was accordingly too tender to fight the battle. Yes, the warrior that had had no reason to panic became its own foe, since it was unable to battle others. For every smile would turn out to be foreign. Every tear fell too late to mean anything. But I did not despair.

So, wearing my deserted heart, I set forth and witnessed my life.

What bore forbidden marks were these: fury, rage, envy, despise, jealousy, hatred, all sorts of putrid maladies that would poison my core. My heart would not handle these well, hence the constant constraint to never step too fearlessly onto the stone.

But once, twice even, my heart's battle cry awakened. The play had one sole act, one truthful, yet somehow disturbing act. Yet the scenery was too mild for its subject. What could a midsummer pond, enlightened by crystal skies, with lovely birdsongs carried by the crisp wind do with the sense of revenge my heart felt, as it was crumbling with every moment?

So I oppressed my ambition; I fought it, despite the faint intelligence that it had nowhere to belong but there, glued to my heart.

Consequently, my quest was then to determine its disappearance. I scratched the outsides of my heart, aware that I would succeed if I wounded it; they grew thin, in the end. But the ambition left us.

Yet do not think that a heart with thin walls is the heart of the pitied!

A heart with thin walls is a miracle, for every good is free to enter, enriching every limb. However, my belief is strong towards one direction: evil can enter too, but it is done damage, so easily even, therefore it stays not long thither.