O, happy the soul that saw its own faults.
Why should I be unhappy? Each parcel of my being is in full bloom.
In the house of lovers, the music never stops, the walls are made of songs & the floor dances
Be occupied, then, with what you really value and let the thief take something else.
Pour out wine till I become a wanderer from myself; for in selfhood and existence I have felt only fatigue.
I have lived on the lip of insanity, wanting to know reasons, knocking on a door. It opens. I've been knocking from the inside.