when love is not madness, it is not love.
Rest belongs to the work as the eyelids to the eyes.
Shadow, with her veil drawn, follows Light in secret meekness,with her silent steps of love.
That I exist is a perpetual surprise which is life.
The dry river-bed finds no thanks for its past.
The mind, sharp but not broad, sticks at every point but does not move.
The stars are not afraid to appear like fireflies.
The sun goes to cross the Western sea, leaving its last salutation to the East.
The trees come up to my window like the yearning voice of the dumb earth.