Echos Of The Heart

Sometimes, it is the flutter of Southern Hornets who recalcitrant and ill-tempered, sneak into sacred territory where they always find enough to entertain their absolutely lousy sense of humour. They tug on fibres holding things, shake up the velvet valves, squat on the great 'His' Bundle', but most importantly, creating and enjoying the new turbulence that gives you PVC's, and fear as stumbles wake your sleep, and skipped or missing beats urge you to move your body just to prove that things are fine and as they say, the beat goes on. God has, the Cantadora says, allotted you a certain finite number of beats, to be used wisely but when they are, my dear, used up there are no seconds, and no substitutes. Then all the turbulence just stops, the hornets leave as if to say how boring, and you depart, not ever having known that not one moth did ever grace or even briefly visit, your corazon, and, as you see, some hornets can behave with skill and self-serving deception. There is, however, as they used to say that little fact that for each single ill an herb is growing somewhere on this earth, to set things ortho, that must be doctor talk, and in the case of the old clock that ticks inside your chest, just like an aging drum it is a substance called ubiquinone, as also known as Co -enzyme Q-Ten. I would not kid you, nor do I have compadres among the hornets, so I urge you, listen now, take time between your wondrous poems and study up for future days and nights when tides are rolling in and out, in moonlight and do not sit there, with the gel and electrodes strapped to your melancholy breasts to gauge your mood, no one will come and scoop you up, my friend, for rescues to succeed do them yourself.