We Fear Death, Yet We Long For

And Is Not The Lute That Soothes Your Spirit The Very Wood That Was Hollowed With Knives?

Tears Have Cleansed My Eyes, And Errors Have Taught Me The Language Of The Hearts.

Much Of Your Pain Is Self-chosen.

If Your Heart Is A Volcano, How Shall You Expect Flowers To Bloom?

He Who Loses His Mother Loses A Pure Soul Who Blesses And Guards Him Constantly.