The heart knows the rhythm of tides, the stomp of thunder, the twinkle of rain drops. The heart knows it all. Each note in the symphony of life, the hearts perceives it. To every empty space between words, to every sigh, the heart gives meaning. It is the master of beauty, of marvelling at specks of light over still rivers on a Sunday afternoon. Plumes, scales, fur, skin, the heart gilds and cherishes with its multicolour mind. Nothing is hidden from the heart. No truth is too great, no fact too irrelevant, no language too foreign for the understanding of the heart. The heart accepts it all, embraces it all, loves it all: the unlovable, the unacceptable, the untouchable, that no one dares to embrace -they too are part of the heart’s desires and endearment. In all there is, the heart finds its beat: slower, faster, moderate. In existence itself finds the heart its blood and it runs through everything as the current of life that it is. For all has a heart, a kernel, a core. And the heart dances within daisies and stars; within prima ballerinas and birthing nebulas. There is no difference to the heart between the swirling of galaxies and the circling of a roundabout full of kids. The heart beats and beats, dances and dances, sings and sings. As long as there is a wisp of life, the hearts thumps, and pulses and drums, like the first day, when it throbbed suddenly inside the womb of being. And it lived.