Often it’s hard to differ pain and joy,Some give up on differentiating

I know surely you’re thinking of me, forI am strange, and you’re kind to the stranger

What agenda does this universe have?What game is it I am oblivious to?

The Moth and Its BelovedAsk the moth the beauty of the candle And it will burn without a confessionThere is a secret to its longing For it feels no fear or hesitationThe moth is too much in love with the flame Yet it does not appear under the sunFor the moon’s light is far too feeble, and It gave up on its pursuit of the sunJust a sight of a candle is enough To remind it of its real belovedSo it settles for that candle in reach, Revels in its heat, and asks to be burned

Find me, as time is a luxuryFor I wait, under this naïve moon

But what good are scars if they do not ache?And what good are eyes if they do not weep?What good is desire if it does not hurt?What good is a passion if it stays ‘sleep?

Listen well, as I speak of my upsurge;For I’m a lover, without a loverI am a flame, without a combustionI am a novice, without a mentorI am a healer, without a woundedI am a winner, without a trophyI’m a captain, without a devoteeAnd above all, I’m alone – not lonely

The more I loved you the more I found me

There should be a limit to my sufferingAs I’m a sinner, not a disbeliever