Your heart's desire is to be told some mystery. The mystery is that there is no mystery.

This country was filled with violent children orphaned by war.

you fix what you can fix and you let the rest go. If there ain't nothin to be done about it it aint even a problem. It's just a aggravation.

The cooler days have brought a wistful mood upon him. The smell of coalsmoke in the air at night. Old times, dead years. For him such memories are bitter ones.

The freedom of birds is an insult to me.

People don't pay attention. And then one day there's an accounting. And after that, nothing is the same.

The wind sounded of Mother Earth's forsaken and abandoned cries.