You Do Not Know Just What You've

You Thought I Was That Type: That You Could Forget Me, And That I'd Plead And Weep And Throw Myself Under The Hooves Of A Bay Mare, Or That I'd Ask The Sorcerers For Some Magic Potion Made From Roots And Send You A Terrible Gift: My Precious Perfumed Handkerchief. Damn You! I Will Not Grant Your Cursed Soul Vicarious Tears Or A Single Glance. And I Swear To You By The Garden Of The Angels, I Swear By The Miracle-working Ikon, And By The Fire And Smoke Of Our Nights: I Will Never Come Back To You.

A Loss, But Who Still Mourns The Breath Of One Woman, Or Laments One Wife? Though My Heart Never Can Forget, How, For One Look, She Gave Up Her Life.

Poems Are My Link With The Times, With The New Life Of My People.

If I Can't Have Love, If I Can't Find Peace, / Give Me A Bitter Glory.

There Is A Sacred, Secret Line In Loving Which Attraction And Even Passion Cannot Cross.