In a world where all is borrowed,
and time like elusive dust seems to
just slip through our fingers,
all we realy have are these precious moments
where we can make fertile the soil
in the garden of our hearts,
that love may make its home
and here the mortal seed may flourish.
Only love can free us from the womb of time
for life... like a magnificent mysterious cloud holds
its shape and from only long enough for us to blinks,
and all our precious memmories are but shadows of
time that will drift away like fallen returning
to the emptiness from which they came.
Thus we are,like innocent children flowering
in the garden of souls
