If you want to escape a hundred days of sorrow

Be patient in that single moment of choler

Ill humor frequently hurts more

Than the injury that provoked it galore

Only a fool thinks he is angry with good reasons

And is consumed by it deep into his fragile core

The wise directs his anger towards problems, not humans

Studies his own failings, focuses his energy on answers, not excuses

Is not anger only one letter short of danger?

Jealousy is born with love, feeds on doubts to linger

But dies alone under the pretence of keeping alive

It is self-love and hatred at once as a pair

A fear of abandonment, neurotic insecurity dwelling in the same lair

The immature often assumes that the greater the passion is

The bigger the suspicious jealousy becomes

They are in fact the most incompatible foes

Since every competent and self-confident soul knows

He is equally beloved by the person whom he entirely adores