There is no space wider than that of grief.
And here am I, budding among the ruins with only sorrow to bite on, as if weeping were a seed and I the earth's only furrow.
Give me your hand out of the depths sown by your sorrows.
Bitter love, a violet with it's crown of thorns in a thicet of spiky passions, spear of sorrow, corolla of rage: how did you come to conquer my soul? What brought you?
From sorrow to sorrow love crosses its islands and establishes roots that are watered by weeping.
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