Wanderers are we through this fleeting plane,
Our frames are but pieces of this puzzle.
Too short the life of burning candle flame
Are too, the souls which burn through this bustle.

Two brief wandering souls, how do they meet?
Truly the hand of the Unseen has part
To this divine play, where hearts rend and beat,
And actors play well their frivolous art.

Lonely are the souls of men, never pleased,
Unyielding to the truth which stands before.
That verity that men find when they ceased
Love completely, bares the abyss of lore.

Lonely are we, though surrounded by friends,
My friends, are they? Friends, are they truly not?
An empty void patient remains and spends,
And expends, the faculties all have sought.

Never full, never gay, is the sad soul.
Untouched by holy grace, foreign to love.
Till she finds the soul, the love making whole,
Spirit of love lost and found, from above.

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