My heart that is my art.

But my heart, my heart, from where

And where do I start?

And how,

How should I begin?

This sad song

 That I sing.

Should I speak of the eyes and what they hold?

Or the secrets lips dare not unfold?

Should I address the stories told?

Or the many left untold?

Should I of the wise men be?

Ask questions and leave in doubt?

Shake the fountain and let my secrets sprout?

Half the answer the question may be,

But not for me,

Not for me.

I see the glass half empty.

Of a hundred I see but fifty.

Of the rainbow I see but the black;

So why should I ask?

And why should I start and

Reveal the secrets of my heart?

My heart  . . .

My heart that is my art.