“You lit a flame in me that could start wildfires.”

And like the sun you bring me life, but still i keep my distance. In case you scald me-and i lose sight of myself.

Yeah lets grow old together, But promise me we’ll always have youth in our bones.

I mastered the art of not caring and wow it made me more daring.

I freed my mind from the weight of this world and found peace in lighter places.

The moon felt brighter, I smelt flowers as if they bloomed in winter and felt the sun bless my skin in darkness. My mind was healing and i could feel again.

Flowers grew where her feet followed and trees bowed above her head, but in her garden there were secrets beneath that soil, she could not forget.

In places where everyone is beautiful, i am tempted to toy with my ugly.

We have to be strong, for the ones that came before us, and the ones who are yet to come.

One defeat does not define you.

So be bold, run free and live like poetry.

So we danced in the rain and woke to the haze of a sunrise painted in honey.

So i swept our stardust under the rug, and discovered a magic of my own.

Free spirit, The world is yours.

The longer you sit in the field, forcing fragile stalks together, the more you value the loops, the links that stay. And the less you miss the ones that snap and blow away.

Even when your tears have soaked through the last pages of your book, the sun will dry them and illuminate every word of your story.

So keep rowing against the current, no one ever made an epic voyage through smooth sailing.

Opposition always inflames the enthusiast, never converts him.

Even now, nature is the only flame, on which the poetic spirit feeds; from it alone it draws all its power, to it alone it speaks even in the artificial, in the man engaged in culture.

I’m willing to fly close to the flame.

From life, from the apple cut by the flaming knife, what grain will be saved? My son, believe me, nothing remains, Only adult toil, the furrow of fate in the palm. Only toil, Nothing more.

You know, there’s a big lie in this business. The lie is that it’s okay to go out in flames. But that doesn’t do anybody much good. I may be wrong, but I think Hendrix was trying to come around.

For a country without a past is nothing, a word That, hardly spoken, loses its meaning, A perishable wall destroyed by flame, An echo of animal emotions.

Death is a mighty mediator. There all the flames of rage are extinguished, hatred is appeased, and angelic pity, like a weeping sister, bends with gentle and close embrace over the funeral urn.

Young love is a flame; very pretty, often very hot and fierce, but still only light and flickering. The love of the older and disciplined heart is as coals, deep-burning, unquenchable.