Caress the fleeting wound until it bleeds,
For joy is but a prize that’s borne of pains.
Indulge with tears that grow the bounty seeds
Of beauty pure beneath the scalding flames.
The art of loving is born of sufferings long,
Of rooted hate and countless blades run deep:
As verse and rhyme compose the saddest song,
The sounds of laughter rise from tears you weep.
The deeper that pain carves in your frail being,
The bigger joy your aching heart contains.
And when the eyes cascade and you stop seeing,
The tears that fall shall fuel the burning flames.
The more the pains unwav’ring carve your soul
A step of miles it takes less turning whole.