The heart is girded like an iron box,
entrenched beneath the soul in roots of oak,
sealed and locked up tight with heavy locks,
bound by living wood's embracing choke.
For the open air it often aches,
Claustrophobic in its prison's cloak.
Swollen, presses through the chains and breaks
Free of the weight of the iron yoke.

The roots, thus torn, will need repair,
the heart, thus free, another dwelling,
the soul a companion in its loneliness.
So comes another wandering heart to share
in the lonely pain's dispelling,
and the wounded roots of two souls kiss.