Behind dark, twining ivy,
On an old, Victorian wall,
Where moths and small flies flutter,
And spiders weave and crawl,
There’s a rusty lock that’s hidden
In a peeling, old oak door –
They who find the key are bidden
To unlock a treasure store,
For behind those creaky hinges
Lies a garden of delights,
Only known to special people
Who appreciate such sights.
Once an ailing, sickly schoolboy
To whom life was only pain
Found the garden and its pleasures,
Helped him grow and thrive again.
A young woman walked unaided
Midst the sunshine and the flowers,
And a man, betrayed by heartache
Found true comfort in those bowers.
Seek the door, unlock its treasures,
For it’s there for everyone
In that special, secret garden
Where the love goes on and on.
Night is a world lit by itself. ~Antonio Porchia
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