I Had A Second Birth When My

Oh Heart, If One Should Say To You That The Soul Perishes Like The Body, Answer That The Flower Withers, But The Seed Remains.

Trees Are Poems The Earth Writes Upon The Sky, We Fell Them Down And Turn Them Into Paper, That We May Record Our Emptiness.

The Deeper That Sorrow Carves Into Your Being, The More Joy You Can Contain.

We Wanderers, Ever Seeking The Lonelier Way, Begin No Day Where We Have Ended Another, And No Sunrise Finds Us Where Left By Sunset. Even While The Earth Sleeps We Travel. We Are The Seeds Of That Tenacious Plant, And It Is In Our Ripeness And Our Fullness Of Heart That We Are Given To The Wind To Be Scattered.

The Smallest Act Of Kindness Is Worth More Than The Greatest Intention.