We Who Love Him Beheld

And How Shall You Punish Those Whose Remorse Is Already Greater Than Their Misdeeds?

Poetry Is Not The Opinion Stated. It Is A Song That Appears Instead Of A Bloody Wound Or A Smiling Mouth.

How Distant I Am From People When I Am With Them, And How Close When They Are Far Away.

Wit Is Often A Mask. If You Tear It You Will Find Either Genius Irritated Or Cleverness Juggling.

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.