What ails you, O heart, so naive and lost?
What balm can soothe this ache, this costly frost?
If nothing stirs, if naught exists but You,
If nothing stirs, and all is lost anew,
Then why this storm, this clamor, tell me, why?
What ails you, O heart, beneath the sky?
What ails you, O heart, so lost and shy?
What balm can soothe this ache that will not die?
What ails you, O heart, so deep inside?
We are the seekers, they, the distant, cold.
We are the seekers, and their hearts grow old.
O God, this riddle, what does it enfold?
What ails you, O heart, so brave and bold?
If nothing stirs, if naught exists but You,
If nothing stirs, and all is lost anew,
Then why this storm, this tempest, tell me, true?
What ails you, O heart, in shades of blue?
We long for faith from those who do not know,
We long for faith, a love that ebbs and flows,
We long for faith, the seeds of love we sow,
From those who know not what true faith can show.
What ails you, O heart, where sorrows grow?
What balm can soothe this pain, this ebb and flow?
What ails you, O heart, where embers glow?
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