Frustration of the soul- the deadness fills my brain- all I can see when I am sitting here in the dark. My skills I have in diplomacy have fallen, and my greatest vast chest of the old, where Kings beseech each other mix in a toss up with dancing horses that carry nights, people with legs as long as spindly trees, or I might say-anyhow, surely I portray a fire of pane in my mirror of true pain. I had been sitting here, quietly listening to silence filling up against a black night of pretty stars, but the fire in my mirror would not be quenched, so I tried to pull my hair out to no avail. Then I just sat here, listening to the quiet, eyes turned toward the fire mirror while I drift, now, slowly into a sleep- I have put my hands down, my fancies to bring me from pain aside. My hair lays smooth and luscious. Nothing to do and the fire has somehow died. All of it vanquished. I hear crickets. I see the stars . . . beauty has come out again.