Let me touch a little of your sorrow, and two or three living poems will blaze to life in these hands!
Make me bloody once more, blood upon blood, and new love stories will write themselves into being.
The heart that sleeps each night with festering wounds— pour a little more anguish into those wounds. Gritting teeth... anguish can be borne, what cannot be borne is the failure to become even one color of your shimmering rainbow.
Let me tell you something. Listen. The person you keep misunderstanding day after day— perhaps you never understood him at all! In his thousand defeated faces you could not recognize him.
Perhaps he no longer lives, died bit by bit from suffering, and no one noticed. You didn't realize either that in your absence he had long since died, little by little!
A dead, rotting, decomposed man— how much can he give! ...how much can he take! No, he can do nothing at all.
Pure love's feeling, whatever else it may do, cannot sustain life! Then why this slow burning out like rice-husk fire! Forgive me, O Love!