Do tears not yet spilled wait in small lakes?
my feet will want to walk to where you are sleeping but I shall go on living.
A child who does not play is not a child, but the man who doesn't play has lost forever the child who lived in him and who he will miss terribly.
I want to see thirst In the syllables, Tough fire In the sound; Feel through the dark For the scream.
Green was the silence, wet was the light, the month of June trembled like a butterfly.
How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me, my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running. So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes, and over our heads the grey light unwinds in turning fans.