He Who Wears His Morality But As

The Brooks Flow To Their Lover, The Sea, And The Flowers Smile At The Object Of Their Passion, The Light. The Mist Rolls Down To Its Beloved, The Valley. And I? In Me Is What Brooks Do Not Know, What Flowers Do Not Hear, What The Mist Does Not Apprehend. You See Me Alone In My Love, Solitary In My Yearning.

Trees Are Poems The Earth Writes Upon The Sky, We Fell Them Down And Turn Them Into Paper, That We May Record Our Emptiness.

The Highest Virtue Here May Be Least In Another World.

The Sun Teaches To All Things That Grow Their Longing For The Light. But It Is Night That Raises Them To The Stars.

You Are A Flower Crushed Beneath The Feet Of The Animal That Is Concealed In A Human Being. Take Comfort, In That You Are The Flower Crushed And Not The Foot That Has Crushed It.