I think Heaven must be still, Beyond the sickness, past the ill; No heavy mind, no restless fear, No pain that follows year to year. No shame left buried in the bone, No soul condemned to walk alone; Just quiet light, untouched by grief, And finally, a kind relief. Perhaps that's why the world feels far, Like someone watching from afar; Because my heart, though living yet, Already longs where saints have met.
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