The soul: a wide listening sky with thousands of candles.
The world is a playground, and death is the night.
The wealth within you, your essence, is your kingdom.
Get yourself out of the way, and let Joy have more space.
I turn all thorn then, but you come back again and make my thorniness fragrant and pink and petaled.
In the slaughterhouse of love, they kill only the best, none of the weak or deformed. Don't run away from this dying. Whoever's not killed for love is dead meat.