Real tenderness can't be confused, It's quiet and can't be heard.

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

It is unbearably painful for the soul to love silently.

The triumphs of a mysterious non-meeting are desolate ones; unspoken phrases, silent words.

The word landed with a stony thud Onto my still-beating breast. Nevermind, I was prepared, I will manage with the rest. I have a lot of work to do today; I need to slaughter memory, Turn my living soul to stone Then teach myself to live again. . . But how. The hot summer rustles Like a carnival outside my window; 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.

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.