Of the millions of words, or more — Either inspired by love, or loss, Or a simple desire for another, They haven’t meant a thing Compared, To the ecstasy of life. Of myself, The words I've written have been few, or even a handful I sing them at mere moments of midnight, under the veil of quiet, held in precious memory. So, forgiven me if i read your words, and i smile at the thought, and pretend, for one thrilling beautiful moment,