The heart is deceitful above all things;
But the fading brain has its own daytime delusions,
Pulling all the shutters up,
Leaving the dirty dishes undone,
Denying all rumours of people at home
And threading needles to stitch up
The wounds that no-one else can see.
The heart is deceitful above all things,
But these things too can be like serpents
Though they pose at dusk like doves:
The gentle cooing of the dark,
The beckoning, soft hum of sleep
And the pale feathers of
The lie that blankness equals rest.
The heart, though deceitful above all things,
Keeps steady rhythm while the mind
Entrances with its syncopation;
And the heart, at dawn, revives
And rolls away the stones of night,
But all the while the mind stands firm
And denies that it is dead.