Without art, there would still be shapes,

Dancing in your dreams.

But what would be the point?

 

Without love, there would still be glances:

Random, half-welcoming, half-shy.

But what would be the point?

 

Without faith, there would still be queues,

Credulous, consenting in their fear.

But what would be the point?

 

Without music, there would still be noises:

An unexplained anvil ringing in your head.

But what would be the point?

 

Without hope, there would still be a future,

Stretching out blindly along a tarmacked road.

But what would be the point?

 

Without forgiveness, there would still be compassion;

Your punishment rescinded, by instinct.

But what would be the point?

 

Without happiness, there would still be laughs

And sudden invasions of uncontrolled warmth.

But what would be the point?

 

Without sadness, there would still be tears,

Trickling, uncomprehending, on to your bleeding lip.

But what would be the point?

 

Without all this, upon this Earth,

Who could tell how much things are worth?

There would be birth, there would be death,

But there would be no life, just breath.