There is tattered lace upon the breast of my loved one.
I tattered it. I did not know.
I had thought it was of iron.
Still, she did not look at me with tears in her eyes.
Instead, she tattered my lace right back.
I knew my lace was tender.
I knew that.
Actually, I wear no lace.
What I speak of is my heart.
The hardness of it, that is,
The hardness that I put there because my heart was so tender.
The hardness of my heart is what she tattered.
by Robert Hampton Burt