We Are All Like The Bright Moon,

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

I Existed From All Eternity And, Behold, I Am Here; And I Shall Exist Till The End Of Time, For My Being Has No End.

For The First Time The Sun Kissed My Own Naked Face And My Soul Was Inflamed With Love For The Sun, And I Wanted My Masks No More. And As If In A Trance I Cried, "blessed, Blessed Are The Thieves Who Stole My Masks." Thus I Became A Madman.

All Can Hear, But Only The Sensitive Can Understand.

The Shepherd Will Deny The Diseased Lamb In Fear Of The Flock.