Life Is A Stream On Which We

Even Pain Pricks To Livelier Living.

Hate Is Ravening Vulture Beaks Descending On A Place Of Skulls.

You Are Ice And Fire The Touch Of You Burns My Hands Like Snow.

Happiness, To Some, Is Elation; To Others It Is Mere Stagnation.

When You Came, You Were Like Red Wine And Honey, And The Taste Of You Burnt My Mouth With Its Sweetness.