There is a yearning in the human heart
Often going without a name,
Experienced as a wound by some,
By others a simple longing.
An inner thirst,
Showing no mercy to the Soul,
Allowing no permanent rest
Since it cannot be owned
But only sought.
This yearning points beyond what we have,
It almost seems that we are also pursued.
That being also yearned for
Is what draws us forward.
Seeking union with that which has no name,
Yet present in the inner emptiness
Speaking of home
A place we know is there
Even though never seen.