Behind The Veil Of Each Night, There

I Wash My Hands Of Those Who Imagine Chattering To Be Knowledge, Silence To Be Ignorance, And Affection To Be Art.

Thus With My Lips Have I Denounced You, While My Heart, Bleeding Within Me, Called You Tender Names. It Was Love Lashed By Its Own Self That Spoke. It Was Pride Half Slain That Fluttered In The Dust. It Was My Hunger For Your Love That Raged From The Housetop, While My Own Love, Kneeling In Silence, Prayed Your Forgiveness.

My Yearning Is My Cup, My Burning Thirst Is My Drink, And My Solitude Is My Intoxication; I Do Not And Shall Not Quench My Thirst. But In This Burning That Is Never Extinguished Is A Joy That Never Wanes.

The Song Of The Voice Is Sweet, But The Song Of The Heart Is The Pure Voice Of Heaven.

The Philosopher's Soul Dwells In His Head, The Poet's Soul Is In His Heart; The Singer's Soul Lingers About His Throat, But The Soul Of The Dancer Abides In All Her Body.