Love Is The Only Flower That Grows

You, The Strong, Have I Loved, Though The Marks Of Your Iron Hoofs Are Yet Upon My Flesh.

Extreme Torture Is Mute, And So We Sat Silent, Petrified, Like Columns Of Marble Buried Under The Sand Of An Earthquake. Neither Wished To Listen To The Other Because Our Heart-threads Had Become Weak And Even Breathing Would Have Broken Them.

A Traveller I Am, And A Navigator, And Everyday I Discover A New Region Within My Soul.

You Are The Bows From Which Your Children As Living Arrows Are Sent Forth.

I Purified My Lips With Sacred Fire That I Might Speak Of Love, But When I Opened My Mouth To Speak, I Found Myself Mute.