Sweetness is not my measure,
   but thorns,
a ceaseless seeking,
   where nothing can be found.
This life is a rock strewn land,
a waste within which my heart's
   finest seed
falls to die a thousand deaths.
So be it, the hard hermit laughs,
I ask not for recompense.
Folly is necessary as ground
   for wisdom,
a preparation for unwelcome
   truths.
Let pain and sorrow be my measure,
it cannot touch my finest joy.
All my songs sing
   to the jewel of my heart.