What good are noble words from a vain heart?
You desire truth in the inward parts.

Morning steps out in her gilded gown.

I'm made of lead
as I'm laid in bed,
heavy-laden.

Wherefore have I life if kind I cannot be?
If love have not I, divide my breath from me.

The quickness of rage—
that murderous blight—
discards self-control
for counterfeit might.

I drown when I divert from love,
dragged into a crushing depth;
and lo, the way whereon I trod—
one whose gate is wide and broad—
does lead me unto certain death.

O, stubborn heart! Thou harkest not to Wisdom's words;
and forsooth,
for thou hast been inclined to death ever since thy youth.

Mere silence, too, could be
a melancholic melody.

Death, whose guise is end to sorrow,
sells salvation 'til tomorrow.

My hands move like water over lily pads white and black,
above keys that agree with the notes of a mental track.
I'm pulled by a rhythm forward and back.
I lose myself in a euphonic lilac.