When I’m still enough to listen,
My soul whispers to me.
She tells me many secrets
About what is and what could be.


Often, her whisper is singing
Or poetry and rhyme.
Once she spoke in cries and wails;
I hear her whispers all the time.


I find her to be elusive,
If I try hard to hear,
It seems that she moves away;
Perhaps she tries to disappear.


I know to treat her with honor
And show her love each day.
That’s when she is most happy
So that she has plenty to say.


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