O do not weep, she says, for ages past I was and I endure

War is a fevered god who takes alike maiden and king and clod.

Dance until the earth dance.

There's a black rose growing in your garden.

The laying of fish on the embers, the taste of the fish, the feel of the texture of bread, the round and the half-loaf, the grain of a petal, the rain-bow and the rain.

The whole white world is ours.

Writing. Love is writing.