(Author of the Filthy hands and other poems and
#the children of none)

It is not the wind that we are afraid;
Neither the storm that shatters the ecosystem
It is not the careless bullet that whines from the gun,
Neither the encrusted raiment of a gun
Nor the sun that smites as a sniper.
It is not the tire that smatched accidentally,
Nor the furious and noisome sound
of thunder;
It is not starvation that nips our young;
Nor the shell and burst of the miles-
It is THE HEART,
THE HEART,
THE HUMAN HEART.

It is not the oxygen that we breathe in,
Neither the furious flame of fire;
Nor the sharpened edge of an arrow.
It is not the bounce of the bomb
That rend the earth cross—
It is THE HEART,
THE HEART,
THE HUMAN HEART.

It is not that we lack abilities,
Nor millions had not gotten to mastery;
But just a shrink from the horror of the heart.
We don’t mind to keep hitting to the peak,
It is inherent in us.
It is not the harsh tongue that discourages creativity,
Neither sarcasm that makes us lose esteem
It is THE HEART,
THE HEART,
THE HUMAN HEART.

It is not the weather that is hard as a rock,
Nor the rude tongue with no refrain,
and the podigy mucky eyes;
Neither the sky with a-pouring flood
But our pain and our woe—
It is THE HEART,
THE HEART,
THE HUMAN HEART.

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