There is a sacred, secret line in loving which attraction and even passion cannot cross.

Who will grieve for this woman? Does she not seem too insignificant for our concern? Yet in my heart I never will deny her, Who suffered death because she chose to turn.

I have long had this premonition of a bright day and a deserted house

I go forth to seek To seek and claim the lovely magic garden Where grasses softly sigh and Muses speak.

All that I am hangs by a thread tonight

Hands, matches, an ashtray. A ritual beautiful and bitter.

No, not under the vault of another sky, not under the shelter of other wings. I was with my people then, there where my people were doomed to be.