"A master in the art of living draws no sharp distinction between his work and his play; his labour and his leisure; his mind and his body; his education and his recreation. He hardly knows which is which. He simply pursues his vision of excellence through whatever he is doing, and leaves others to determine whether he is working or playing. To himself, he always appears to be doing both."

Love and tenderness,
I've heard those words before;
No one else was listening,
Too busy keeping score
Of the endless body count.
Though no one will admit
To pulling the first trigger,
To stirring up the - bit

About you and I together,
It seems a little odd
That we could kill each other
- in the name of God.

Love and tenderness,
In chronic short supply.
The only tears ever shed
Are after someone dies.
Peaceful negotiations
Always end too soon.
Each one of us is hostage
To every fatal wound.

Love and tenderness,
In this I'll keep my faith.
I'll hold myself together
And hope for changing tastes.
But though the wind is changing,
It still whispers in my ear;
Of those who fear for what they speak
- Not speak of what they fear.