Hour of nostalgia, hour of happiness, hour of solitude.

I walked around as you do, investigating the endless star, and in my net, during the night, I woke up naked, the only thing caught, a fish trapped inside the wind.

Peace goes into the making of a poem as flour goes into the making of bread.

From scarlet to powdered gold, to blazing yellow, to the rare ashen emerald, to the orange and black velvet of your shimmering corselet, out to the tip that like an amber thorn begins you, small, superlative being, you are a miracle, and you blaze

Joyful, joyful, joyful, as only dogs know how to be happy with only the autonomy of their shameless spirit.

I am made of earth, and my song made of words.

When I sleep every night, what am I called or not called? And when I wake, who am I if I was not I while I slept?