may my heart always be open to little birds who are the secrets of living whatever they sing is better than to know and if men should not hear them men are old may my mind stroll about hungry and fearless and thirsty and supple and even if it's sunday may i be wrong for whenever men are right they are not young and may myself do nothing usefully and love yourself so more than truly there's never been quite such a fool who could fail pulling all the sky over him with one smile

And now you are and I am and we're a mystery which will never happen again.

twice I have lived forever in a smile

nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond

for whenever men are right they are not young

Art is a mystery. A mystery is something immeasurable.