Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.
Poetry is the journal of a sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air.
The single clenched fist lifted and ready, Or the open asking hand held out and waiting. Choose: For we meet by one or the other.
The drum in a dream pounds loud to the dreamer.
I could safely declare, I am an idealist... I believe in everything - I am only looking for proofs.
I glory in this world of men and women, torn with troubles, yet living on to love and laugh through it all.