Other men talk of windows, or of the Spanish civil war. I lean towards their lintel, I open wide their lasting sore. You carry so many fallen voices; which is a joy for me.
Yet is for you another burden, a wider walk of misunderstanding. You think I have belief, yet I talk of the sodden horse with the cartload of deep doubt, being dragged along behind.
Though I acknowledge, that for me here now in my plimsolls it may be more appropriate to sing more swiftly, of a pony and trap. Your gift of love and care, given in heaps and bounds as a birthright.
To be held at bay, or kept at a distance by those around you. Which leads to your somewhat loss of confidence; you have doubt about the strength and depth of a love you are not allowed to share.
Other men talk of scriptures, or myths with folklore, or with a classical education easily to hand. Your talk is open, open and wanting deeply of love.
