Why poetry, you ask? Because of life, I answer.

Before the first before and after the last after, there is night waiting.

Through a forest of challenges, thought moves and squirms, resisting beguilements; if it endures, it emerges pure.

While gazing at myself from yourself, I was beautiful.

Serious affairs and history are carefully laid snares for the uninformed.

Wherever I go, I run into myself.

Every star was once darker than the night, before it awoke.