The Longing For Paradise Is Paradise Itself.

The Human Heart Cries Out For Help; The Human Soul Implores Us For Deliverance; But We Do Not Heed Their Cries, For We Neither Hear Nor Understand. But The Man Who Hears And Understands We Call Mad, And Flee From Him. Thus The Nights Pass, And We Live In Unawareness; And The Days Greet Us And Embrace Us. But We Live In Constant Dread Of Day And Night.

Love Passes By Us, Robed In Meekness; But We Flee From Her In Fear, Or Hide In The Darkness; Or Else Pursue Her, To Do Evil In Her Name.

Reason Is Not Like The Goods Sold In The Market Places--the More Plentiful They Are, The Less They Are Worth. Reason's Worth Waxes With Her Abundance. But Were She Sold In The Market, It Is Only The Wise Man Who Would Understand Her True Value.

Thinking Is Always The Stumbling Stone To Poetry.

There Are Those Who Give With Joy, And That Joy Is Their Reward. And There Are Those Who Give With Pain, And That Pain Is Their Baptism. And There Are Those Who Give And Know Not Pain In Giving, Nor Do They Seek Joy, Nor Give With Mindfulness Of Virtue; They Give As In Yonder Valley The Myrtle Breathes Its Fragrance Into Space. Through The Hands Of Such As These God Speaks, And From Behind Their Eyes He Smiles Upon The Earth.