How many fools have been found by love, Empty, desolate, and longing, Surrendered to their low estate Finding that for which they had dared not hope? How many have been made fools by love, Certain of their lives and dreams, Crushed upon the rocks of anguish, Stripped of all they thought to be? How many fools have forsaken love, Hardened lonely and bitter, Surrounded by walls of their own making, Protected from all but their own selfishness? How many fools have been revealed by love, Bold, brash or embittered, Squeezed until their heart pours forth, The secrets they had hoped to retain.