and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you

i fear no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true) and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you here is the deepest secret nobody knows

Who knows if the moon's / a balloon, coming out of a keen city / in the sky - filled with pretty people?

O to be in finland/ now that russia's here)

And the coolness of your smile is stirringofbirds between my arms

If at the end of your first ten or fifteen years of fighting and working and feeling, you find you've written one line of one poem, you'll be very lucky indeed.

The world is mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful.