All belongs to the genuine,

Who do not flinch from their own passion,

Nor douse their own fiery spirit,

Having vowed to never forge a false self,

Or anything resembling an aped imitation of a living soul;

All belongs to the people of substance,

Who do not bottle their excitement or stifle their laughter,

Trusting their heart’s humor as gospel truth,

And so uncork their joy,

Spilling forth something that is melodious, solid and full-bellied,

Distinct from that which only ping-pongs the sides of a hollow soul,

That becomes fainter and fainter, eventually lost, left for dead;

All belongs to those with sincere hearts,

Who in full possession of their individuality,

Having chosen to see the cherubs,

Cannot contain their smiles,

And to whom enthusiasm comes easy,

And duplicity impossibly hard;

So complete, so singular, so magnificent a being–

Are they who love life,

It’s no wonder then,

That all belongs to them.