“Drunk with beauty, I tore downArmfuls of blossoms.How desolate the marred sky!”
“You're a beautiful drunk, daughter. But you're a drunk.”
“...in January, everything seems desolate. The Moon ascends to cold heights - and I, a ragged sky filled with dark kisses...lie abandoned by you...”
“...my heart is a desolate field over which geese vee, the sky turns and the days lie fallow...”
“And, drunk with my own madness, I shouted at him furiously, "Make life beautiful! Make life beautiful!”
“Nothing, not even time, will mar your beauty in my eyes.”