In the streaming of teardrops, in the mournful sighs of the bereaved,
Therein resides the secret of eternal joy.

Let the foolish proclaim themselves in love,
To their own feebleness do they attest.

Like the conjurer’s cheap illusions: transient, evanescent,
A cruel hoax that beguiles the unwary.

Is remedy sought from hemlock? Does the lamb seek sanctuary in the den?
Will the disconsolate then disburse bliss?

Search inwards if it is Love you seek,
The nostomania of the soul points the way.

A reunion without end in a place beyond ‘you’ and ‘I’,
From Him we came and to Him is our return.

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