No One Knows, The Heart Of A

Love Is A Garment Riven In The Light That Rises From Parnassus, Showing The Night Is Over.

The Race May Or May Not Be To The Swift, But Tell Me, Is It Likely That The Fight Will Be Entrusted To The Dead?

A Slight Wind Shakes The Seed-pods My Thoughts Are Spent As The Black Seeds.

Let Love Step Down, Open The Clasped Hands, Forfeit The Thorny Crown, Retrieve The Garment That Was Whole, Body And Spirit One, Spirit And Soul.

Ardent Yet Chill And Formal, How I Ache To Tempt A Chisel As A Sculptor.