By though your dress conforms, your manners comport,
though the offences you give, may be measured at naught,
though in society’s net, you are inevitably caught,
may your garlic wild heart, question all that it’s taught
though your surface be steady, placid and still,
may your lungs stretch to bursting, may you feel your own fill,
and when dubious duties beset and make fraught,
may your star-burst heart drive waves of sharp thought
may your days be full of secret delight,
may your apparent passive, really be fight,
may you find yourself beside your own truest light,
may all your days be as holy as night
may everything you are and ever can be,
be there for you,
and be right next to me
be night garden, my secret, my truth,
for though we live in this house, our souls,
my sweet darling, tear straight through its roof
