You Shall Create Beauty Not

I Have A Faithful Joy And A Joy That Is Lost. One Is Like A Rose, The Other, A Thorn. The One That Was Stolen I Have Not Lost.

Now I Am Nothing But A Veil; All My Body Is A Veil Beneath Which A Child Sleeps.

In The Secret Of Night, My Prayer Climbs Like The Liana, My Prayer Is, And I Am Not. It Grows, And I Perish. I Have Only My Hard Breath, My Reason And My Madness. I Cling To The Vine Of My Prayer. I Tend It At The Root Of The Stalk Of Night.

My Grief And My Smile Begin In Your Face, My Son.

Love That Stammers, That Stutters, Is Apt To Be The Love That Loves Best.