Is it death, that stabbing breeze,
Cuts me like a knife.
Love, it is night, just as Peck said.
The land of the dead,
Holds my love tight.
Perhaps not, Perhaps so.
What does the heart know?
To journey there and back again.
A fools proof is only an idea,
And thus a wise man's the flower
Which blooms within your hand.
To suffer confusion at all cost,
An intricate thing is the mind.
A secret is here, a riddle more so,
The Passionate Professor will know.
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