Lovely Days Don’t Come To You, You

We Are As The Flute, And The Music In Us Is From Thee; We Are As The Mountain And The Echo In Us Is From Thee.

You Are Quaffing Drink From A Hundred Fountains: Whenever Any Of These Hundred Yields Less, Your Pleasure Is Diminished. But When The Sublime Fountain Gushes From Within You, No Longer Need You Steal From The Other Fountains.

There Is A Light Seed Grain Inside. You Fill It With Yourself, Or It Dies.

The Moon Has Become A Dancer At This Festival Of Love.

There’s Nothing Left Of Me. I’m Like A Ruby Held Up To The Sunrise. Is It Still A Stone, Or A World Made Of Redness? It Has No Resistance To Sunlight.