It’s not just another word,
But a feeling too pious to profane;
It’s a voice that’s slurred,
By only a true heart it’s possible to attain.
Yet man tires with all things mortal,
To ensure that the feeling gets smothered,
But to that; the heart will just chortle,
‘Cause its least bothered.
Measure it not by the number of gifts,
The number of rifts, doesn’t Judge its might,
It’s a prayer, by which the heart lifts,
It’s a feeling tied to heart, that files like a kite.
