Sorrow's not lasting, and neither is pain:
Between every moment, we find some to claim
as joys in the seasons: flow'rs among thorns,
But yet tinged with sadness, for they last but the morn'.
We wistfully greet them, as dying they're born,
And know that these roses are naught w'thout thorns.
Even in laughter, the heart still to weep
Knowing that joy - from fullness - sorrow will keep.
- J. P. Antonios