If It's A Despot You

And You Would Accept The Seasons Of Your Heart Just As You Have Always Accepted That Seasons Pass Over Your Fields And You Would Watch With Serenity Through The Winters Of Your Grief.

And Is Not The Lute That Soothes Your Spirit The Very Wood That Was Hollowed With Knives?

A Friend Who Is Far Away Is Sometimes Much Nearer Than One Who Is At Hand. Is Not The Mountain Far More Awe-inspiring And More Clearly Visible To One Passing Through The Valley Than To Those Who Inhabit The Mountain?

For The Breath Of Life Is In The Sunlight And The Hand Of Life Is In The Wind.

Like The Seeds Dreaming Beneath The Snow Your Heart Dreams Of Spring.