Silence is a word from the heart,
it is uttered but concealed
for none can listen to its cry.
There at her bed
she slept and wept
upon dreams and wets,
upon a string, she placed her cries,
upon a boat they went unseen;
all care within her heart.
In the air of spring, there are many lies
of love and warmth to be loved,
upon her bed lays a tree
cut and burned from its wheel,
to whom shall she go to mend the bow?
or shall she buy a gun of thorns?
Painting “La Madeleine à la veilleuse” by Georges de La Tour
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