In love do you find contentment?  In love do you caress repose?  Or in the most magical of emotions do you, like so many others, don the robes of awareness, of compassion, of worry, of heartbreak, of fatigue?  Tell me, dearest friend, if you are indeed a true lover, what life shall your flesh wear, for does not the body live only as happily as the anguished soul allows?

The shore and I are lovers, drawn together by desire and pulled apart by the wind. I come from beyond the blue dusk to mix the silver of my foam with the gold of his sand. I cool the heat of his heart with my mouth. At dawn I recite the law of passion into the ears of my lover, and he gathers me to his breast. In the evening I chant the prayer of longing, and he draws near.

[. . .]

In the silence of the night, when the phantoms of sleep have embraced all creatures, I watch, sometimes chanting, sometimes whispering. Woe is me, for watching by night has laid me waste. But I am a lover, and the essence of love is wakefulness.

This is my life, and that which is my life I must do.