I hide my grief, just like the blessed birds hide themselves when they are preparing to die, my love.

Dust into Dust, and under Dust to lie, Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and-sans End!

To be free of belief and unbelief is my religion.

There was a door to which I found no key: There was the veil through which I might not see.

We are in truth but pieces on this chess board of life, which in the end we leave, only to drop one by one into the grave of nothingness.

So I be written in the Book of Love. I do not care about that Book Above. Erase my name, or write it as you will. So I be written in the Book of Love.

The thoughtful soul to solitude retires.