What joyous thing in this world does not break the heart?
What failed body can not be painted into a joy through the eye of the artist?

The universe itself is nothing more or less than the love of the one divine,
Shattered into infinity.

The scales of the soul pivot upon your medium.
Woe and levity are weights upon your balance.

When the tempest strikes, does not your well replenish?
Is it not the winter freeze which breaks the seed to sprout in warmer days?
To the wheatstock,
harvest is the gentle hand of death,
but to the shepherd,
it brings life when days grow cold and dark.

All things of wonder,
And all things of beauty are passing.
All things broken,
And all things remade.

The question is not whether love,
In its magnificent nature,
Fractures the heart,
But whether those cracks upon the spirit let the darkness seep in,
Or the light seep out.