Of lovers whose bodies smell of each other Who think the same thoughts without need of speech

In spite of all the dishonour, the broken standards, the broken lives, The broken faith in one place or another, There was something left that was more than the tales Of old men on winter evenings.

Someone said, 'The dead writers are remote from us because we know so much more than they did.' Precisely, and they are that which we know.

All cases are unique and very similar to others.

Between the conception and the creation, between the emotion and the response, Falls the shadow.

Words strain, Crack and sometimes break, under the burden, Under the tension, slip, slide, perish, Decay with imprecision, will not stay in place, Will not stay still.

Where is the Life we have lost in living? Where is the wisdom we have lost in knowledge? Where is the knowledge we have lost in information?