Mirpi Photography

You made me the thief of your heart I hope you're happy now... ...I could never make you so... you were a hard man... no harder in this world you made me cold and you made me hard and you made me the thief of your heart Winter is cold...oh! But you're colder still and for the first time I feel like you're mine I share you with the one who will mend what falls apart and turn a blind eye to the thief of your heart Ohhh you lost Ohhh you lost all you lost all you lost all I'll never wash these clothes I want to keep the stain Your blood to me is precious nor would I spill it in vain your spirit sings though your lips never part singing only to me the thief of your heart Ohhh you lost Ohhh you lost Ohhh you lost all lost all Ohhh you lost Ohhh you lost all lost all

“For me, trees have always been the most penetrating preachers. I revere them when they live in tribes and families, in forests and groves. And even more I revere them when they stand alone. They are like lonely persons. Not like hermits who have stolen away out of some weakness, but like great, solitary men, like Beethoven and Nietzsche. In their highest boughs the world rustles, their roots rest in infinity; but they do not lose themselves there, they struggle with all the force of their lives for one thing only: to fulfil themselves according to their own laws, to build up their own form, to represent themselves. Nothing is holier, nothing is more exemplary than a beautiful, strong tree. When a tree is cut down and reveals its naked death-wound to the sun, one can read its whole history in the luminous, inscribed disk of its trunk: in the rings of its years, its scars, all the struggle, all the suffering, all the sickness, all the happiness and prosperity stand truly written, the