She had a heart, a heart of gold
But few would ever know
She walks with feather feet of old
With no weight clear to show.
With bouncing step, with lightened stride
With love to give, to grow
With hearts and hands to give to poor
And every smile to show.
But on a softer afternoon
Oblivious to foes
She entered in a widow’s shop
In culture made of woes
The widow lived on only alms
Lived not on what she sold
Until that point, Maid Florris graced
Each widow with her smile
But some would come from her own race
And murder her work’s diol
She walked into a shop that day
Along with her own race
They toured long and toured late
But had no plan to stay
Till one grabbed ‘hold a fine earring
Off widow’s fine display
And caught, the young girl flushed out guilt
For widow soon would say:
“You need the money from the sale?
You’d steal from beggars hands?
I know your kind, I know you’re pale!
I see your thieving band!”
And since she loved and gave so much
And since held widows dear
The maid of Florris died of such
A tragedy, a fear.
And all would gather to the town
Of Florris for her there
For one lone myth of her was true
Her heart had weight to bear
It rose out of her gracious chest
A golden jewel of hope
It paid for widows and the rest
Of Florris who can’t cope.
