Perhaps the crescent moon smiles in doubt at being told that it is a fragment awaiting perfection.

This little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills and dales, and hast breathed through it melodies eternally new.

My debts are large, my failures great, my shame secret and heavy; yet I come to ask for my good, I quake in fear lest my prayer be granted.

By touching you may kill, by keeping away you may possess.

The child ever dwells in the mystery of ageless time, unobscured by the dust of history.

Once we dreamt that we were strangers. We wake up to find that we were dear to each other.