I Loved My Body And Did Not

When Shall I At Last Retire Into Solitude Alone, Without Companions, Without Joy And Without Sorrow, With Only The Sacred Certainty That All Is A Dream? When, In My Rags—without Desires—shall I Retire Contented Into The Mountains? When, Seeing That My Body Is Merely Sickness And Crime, Age And Death, Shall I—free, Fearless, And Blissful—retire To The Forest? When? When, Oh When?

As I Watched The Seagulls, I Thought, That's The Road To Take; Find The Absolute Rhythm And Follow It With Absolute Trust.

God Sends Rain, But He Also Sends Hoods; And When The Rain Grows Heavier, He Sends A Cave.

When Everyone Drowns And I'm The Only One To Escape, God Is Protecting Me. When Everyone Else Is Saved And I'm The Only One To Drown, God Is Protecting Me Then Too.

Fools, Art Is A Heavy Task, More Heavy Than Gold Crowns; It's Far More Difficult To Match Firm Words Than Armies, They're Disciplined Troops, Unconquered, To Be Placed In Rhythm, The Mind's Most Mighty Foe, And Not Disperse In Air. I'd Give, Believe Me, A Whole Land For One Good Song, For I Know Well That Only Words, That Words Alone, Like The High Mountains, Have No Fear Of Age Or Death.