In just - Spring when the world is mud- luscious the little lame balloonman whistles far and wee

guilt is the cause of more marauders than history's most obscene disauders

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

may my heart always be open to little birds who are the secrets of living

Lessons hide in his wrinkles. Bells ding in the oldness of eyes. Did he by, any chance, tell children that there are such monstrous things as peace and goodwill...a corrupter of youth no doubt.

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

When skies are hanged and oceans drowned, the single secret will still be man