What are you feeling today?

Better a dinner of herbs than a stalled ox where hate is.

Love is an endless mystery, because there is no reasonable cause that could explain it.

Excerpts
[…]
The Little Prince went to look at the roses again.
“You’re not at all like my rose. You’re nothing at all yet,” he told them.
“No one has tamed you and you haven’t tamed anyone. You’re the way
my fox was. He was just a fox like a hundred thousand others. But
I’ve made him my friend, and now he’s the only fox in all the world.”
And the roses were humbled.
You’re lovely, but you’re empty,” he went on. One couldn’t die for you.
Of course, an ordinary passerby would think my rose looked just like
you. But my rose, all on her own, is more important than all of you
together, since she’s the one I’ve watered. Since she’s the one I put
under glass. Since she’s the one I sheltered behind a screen. Since
she’s the one for whom I killed the caterpillars (except the two or
three for butterflies). Since she’s the one I listened to when she
complained, or when she boasted, or even sometimes when she said
nothing at all. Since she’s my rose.”
And he went back to the fox.
“Good-bye,” he said.
“Goodbye,” said the fox. Here is my secret. It’s quite simple: One
sees clearly only with the heart. Anything essential is invisible to the
eyes.”
“Anything essential is invisible to the eyes,” the little prince repeated,
in order to remember.
“It’s the time you spend on your rose that makes your rose so
important.”
“It’s the time I spent on my rose…,” the little prince repeated, in order
to remember.
“People have forgotten this truth,” the fox said. “But you mustn’t
forget it. You become responsible forever for what you’ve tamed.
You’re responsible for your rose…”
“I’m responsible for my rose…,” the little prince repeated, in order to
remember.
[…]
Now my sorrow is comforted a little. That is to say--not entirely. But I
know that he did go back to
his planet, because I did not find his body at daybreak. It was not such
a heavy body . . . and at
night I love to listen to the stars. It is like five hundred million little
bells . . .
But there is one extraordinary thing . . . when I drew the muzzle for
the little prince, I forgot to add
the leather strap to it. He will never have been able to fasten it on his
sheep. So now I keep
wondering: what is happening on his planet? Perhaps the sheep has
eaten the flower . . .
At one time I say to myself: "Surely not! The little prince shuts his
flower under her glass globe
every night, and he watches over his sheep very carefully . . ." Then I
am happy. And there is
sweetness in the laughter of all the stars.
But at another time I say to myself: "At some moment or other one is
absent-minded, and that is
enough! On some one evening he forgot the glass globe, or the sheep
got out, without making
any noise, in the night . . ." And then the little bells are changed to
tears . . .
Here, then, is a great mystery. For you who also love the little prince,
and for me, nothing in the
universe can be the same if somewhere, we do not know where, a sheep
that we never saw
has--yes or no?--eaten a rose . . .
Look up at the sky. Ask yourselves: is it yes or no? Has the sheep eaten
the flower? And you will
see how everything changes . . .
And no grown-up will ever understand that this is a matter of so much
importance!

Before you came,
things were just as they should be:
the sky was simply the limit of what I could see,
the road was just a road, wine was simply wine.

Now everything feels like my heart,
a color somewhere between life and blood:
the gray of your absence, the color of poison, of thorns,
the gold when we meet, a season bursting into flame,
the yellow of autumn, the red of flowers, of fire,
and the black when you cover the earth
with the ashes of dead fires.

And the sky, the road, the glass of wine?
The sky is a shirt soaked in tears,
the road a vein ready to burst,
and the glass of wine a mirror in which
the sky, the road, the whole world keep changing.

Don't leave now that you're here—
stay, so the world can become itself again:
so the sky can be the sky,
the road a road,
and the glass of wine not a mirror,
but simply a glass of wine.