It shackles the lofty heart,
Binding with ties that tame the wild thrashing.
It is the cord of silence;
It is hands that fold instead of fist.
The music of it makes us pliable,
Tender when the walls have crumbled down.
It bridles and tempers all that beats within us,
Reconciling the warring factions of the soul.
What can we speak of this, the nature of love?
Its meaning is not to tremble and amble,
Nor to live sorry, nor to whimper.
It is the fiercest fire of love, but
It will not raise its voice in the streets.
Its advent is liberation; its rule is justice,
But the nearer it comes, the lower we bow.
The louder it rings, the more we are the dust.
Written by Samantha Lindholm
January 26, 2014
