The world kissed my soul with its pain and asked me to sing in return. This morning, I sat at the window where the world like a passer-by stopped for a moment, nodded to me and left. Let life be beautiful like summer flowers and death like autumn leaves. April is like a child, writing hieroglyphs on the dust with flowers, then erasing and forgetting. Memory is a priestess who kills the present with her present heart and sacrifices to the shrine of the past. God is waiting for mankind to regain childhood in wisdom. Tagore