Poetry is a dividend from what you know and what you are.
All was taken away from you: white dresses, wings, even existence.
On the day the world ends A bee circles a clover, A fisherman mends a glimmering net.
They used to pour millet on graves or poppy seeds To feed the dead who would come disguised as birds. I put this book here for you, who once lived So that you should visit us no more.
I have defined poetry as a 'passionate pursuit of the Real.
Learning To believe you are magnificent. And gradually to discover that you are not magnificent. Enough labor for one human life.