In a room where people unanimously maintain a conspiracy of silence, one word of truth sounds like a pistol shot.

Grow your tree of falsehood from a small grain of truth.

Not that I want to be a god or a hero. Just to change into a tree, grow for ages, not hurt anyone.

A day so happy. Fog lifted early. I worked in the garden. Hummingbirds were stopping over honeysuckle flowers. There was no thing on earth I wanted to possess. I know no one worth my envying him.

Consciousness even in my sleep changes primary colors. The features of my face melt like a wax doll in the fire. And who can consent to see in the mirror the mere face of man?

Even if that is so, there will remain A word wakened by lips that perish, A tireless messenger who runs and runs Through interstellar fields, through the revolving galaxies, And calls out, protests, screams.

Our memory is childish and it saves only what we need.