It’s vain to think the words you speak make sense
When all they are are pocketfuls of sound
That echo from your garden wall and fence
And, when they die, lie littered on the ground.
And yet they make true lovers laugh and weep
With all their talk of beauty and despair
Or lull worn babies into gentle sleep
As if they’re floating on a stream of air.
And words can bring the peaceful to the boil
And make them march along the road to war,
Or, else, they take a day that starts to spoil
And make it brighter than each one before.
And words are what you set your heart upon.
In spite of all, that love still hasn’t gone.
Photo by Piotr Łaskawski on Unsplash
Words
