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“I hate myself for loving you and the weakness that it showed. You were just a painted face on a trip down to suicide road.”
― Bob Dylan

“Glory falls around us as we sob a dirge of desolation on the Cross”
― Maya Angelou, Letter to My Daughter

“A little later, as we talked of the Maniot dirges by which I was obsessed, I was surprised to hear this bloodshot-eyed and barefoot old man say: “Yes, it’s the old iambic tetrameter acalectic.â€� It was the equivalent of a Cornish fisherman pointing out the difference, in practicality incomprehensible dialect, between the Petrachian and the Spenserian sonnet. It was quite correct. Where on earth had he learnt it? His last bit of information was that, in the old days (that wonderful cupboard!) the Arabs used to come to this coast to dive for the murex.”
― Patrick Leigh Fermor, Mani: Travels in the Southern Peloponnese

“Child of shadows, once born of flesh
Un-winged, amidst fear and agony

‘Fraid of the lurking and yet to come
Oblivious, to the code of chivalry.

Voids in his desire were unveiled, as
Love taught him; death with dignity.

In desire to be and in wanting to live
His wretched soul began to purge,

As he wept at the beauty of night
He commenced to sing his own dirge,

Then born again of fire; ascended,
Like Phoenix must burn to emerge.”
― Zubair Ahsan

“The thick baffling blades of false world customs rip off my views and ideas,like breaking every string of my aesthetic thoughts in disdain and jealousy;pain pain enough your tigrine roars before I die.”
― Nithin Purple, Venus and Crepuscule

“Ah! listen the song of storm from my disturbed soul;and it scatters flower buds into its lonely halls;like every pain needs a dirge,with wreaths that awful the world framed one for me,and gives the time it calls.”
― Nithin Purple, Venus and Crepuscule

“He was a strong and noble lord with piercing eyes of grey.
He sat upon his noble throne shining like the dawn.
His sword flashed like the brightest star.
He led our people well.
Yet here and now he lays in blood pierced with arrows.

He was the friend of many knights.
He loved the warrior games.
His heart was won by a lady fair for marriage they did wait.
A kindly prince, his duty carried him to another's bed.
And on her death true love returned, finally they wed.

He felt the grief of children lost to murder and to pain.
I was the youngest of his blood.
I'll never be the same.
Here lays my father and my lord.
I know not what to say.
Except my father and my lord was slain here on this day.

Here lays my father and my lord.
I know not what to say.
Except my father and my lord was slain here on this dayâ€�.”
― Laurel A. Rockefeller, The Ghosts of the Past