Nations are born in the hearts of poets, they prosper and die in the hands of politicians.
When truth has no burning, then it is philosophy, when it gets burning from the heart, it becomes poetry.
Since love first made the breast an instrument Of fierce lamenting, by its flame my heart Was molten to a mirror, like a rose I pluck my breast apart, that I may hang This mirror in your sight.
The possessor of a sound heart puts to test his power by entering into big adventures.
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