The heart wants to roar all of it’s emotions,
locked by it’s many rooms,
a chamber hidden within,
it years for the attention,
yet valleys flow elsewhere,
in different cities,
in luminous towns.
The heart never finds it’s way
to all the glory,
it is just a worker in a play,
but how shall a grand statue
stand tall and proud
without the modesty
of the beating heart?
-Odelia Rozenfeld
Vagrant Poetry 