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Sins of the flesh are nothing
They are maladies to be cured
Sins of the soul alone are shameful
All our sanities are obscured

The great things of life
Are what they seem to be
Loathsome to interpret
They reveal nothing
Little things of life are symbols
By which we receive our bitter lessons

In prisons
In lives
Which hold no event but sorrow
Time is measured by throbs of pain
Between myself and the memory of joy,
There lies a gulf,
No less deep than that between myself
And the bliss in existence
I stand on holy grounds of sorrow

I search my fate in mires
Wisdom is profitless
Philosophy barren
Consolations are dust
And ashes in my mouth

Into harmony with the wounded,
Broken, great heart of the world!

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