Do not cry.

In our time it seems a gentle heart

 Is something to be gnarled

By a thwarted autarch of a petty fiefdom.

Usually your life is measured on a beige form

Which consigns the miracle of your existence

To boxes “A”, “B” or “C”.

But I know a secret.

In time the Greenfinch in your cottage garden will not sing

Of perceived percentages of efficiency

That can be raised by vulgar warring shout.

The song will tell of she that once lived here;

She that tried to succour and to love

All the lives given her to craft.

Flower, sun, snow and morning light.

Your loving heart is known.

So do not cry.