The brooks flow to their lover, the sea, and the flowers smile at the object of their passion, the light. The mist rolls down to its beloved, the valley. And I? In me is what brooks do not know, what flowers do not hear, what the mist does not apprehend. You see me alone in my love, solitary in my yearning.

For truth and the spirit will abide with the morrow.

Coming generations will learn equality from poverty, and love from woes.

It is not the image you would see nor the song you would hear, but rather an image you see though you close your eyes and a song you hear though you shut your ears.

Strange, the desire for certain pleasures is a part of my pain.

For the breath of life is in the sunlight and the hand of life is in the wind.

For to be idle is to become a stranger unto the seasons, and to step out of life’s procession that marches in majesty and proud submission towards the infinite.