Struggling In My Father's Hands, Striving Against

Mysteries Are Not To Be Solved. They Eye Goes Blind When It Only Wants To See Why.

Ah, Sunflower, Weary Of Time, Who Countest The Steps Of The Sun, Seeking After That Sweet Golden Clime Where The Traveller's Journey Is Done; Where The Youth Pined Away With Desire And The Pale Virgin Shrouded In Snow Arise From Their Graves, And Aspire Where My Sunflower Wishes To Go.

Dip Him In The River Who Loves Water.

Those Who Restrain Desire, Do So Because Theirs Is Weak Enough To Be Restrained.

Colouring Does Not Depend On Where The Colours Are Put, But On Where The Lights And Darks Are Put, And All Depends On Form And Outline, On Where That Is Put.