And one cold starry night / Whatever your belief / The phoenix will take flight / Over the seas of grief / To sing her thrilling song / To stars and waves and sky / For neither old nor young / The phoenix does not die.

gardening is a madness, a folly that does not go away with age. Quite the contrary.

I suppose real old age begins when one looks backward rather than forward

It is dangerous it seems to me for a civilization when there is a complete abyss betewen people in general and the artists. Or is it always so? The poets who are most ardently on the people's side write in such a way that the people cannot see rhyme nor reason to their work.

How slowly one comes to understand anything!

I tell the gods are still alive / And they are not consoling.

It is dark now. The snow is deep blue and the ocean nearly black. It is time for some music.