Green how I want you green. Green wind. Green branches.

At five in the afternoon. It was exactly five in the afternoon. A boy brought the white sheet at five in the afternoon. A frail of lime ready prepared at five in the afternoon. The rest was death, and death alone

Not for a moment, beautiful aged Walt Whitman, have I failed to see your beard full of butterflies.

Besides black art, there is only automation and mechanization.

Verde que te quiero verde. Verde viento. Verde ramas. Green I love you green. Green Wind. Green branches.

The day we stop resisting our instincts, we'll have learned how to live.

Theatre is poetry that rises from the book and becomes human enough to talk and shout, weep and despair