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