Death Is The Stone Into Which Our

Bitter Love, A Violet With It's Crown Of Thorns In A Thicet Of Spiky Passions, Spear Of Sorrow, Corolla Of Rage: How Did You Come To Conquer My Soul? What Brought You?

I Want To Do With You What The Spring Does With The Cherry Trees.

Who Hasn't Sharpened The Edge Of His Soul? When, Just As Our Eyes Are Opened, We See Hate, And Just After Learning To Walk, We Are Tripped, And Just For Wanting To Love, We Are Hated, And For No More Than Touching, We Are Hurt, Which Of Us Hasn't Started To Arm Himself, To Make Himself Sharp, Somehow, Like A Knife, To Pay Back The Hurt?

Then Scale By Scale, We Strip Off The Delicacy And Eat The Peaceful Mush Of Its Green Heart.

La Heradera Del Dia Destruida. (the Heiress Of The Destroyed Day.)