Past art is subject to change.
There's no vocabulary For love within a family, love that's lived in But not looked at, love within the light of which All else is seen, the love within which All other love finds speech. This love is silent.
Oh, do not ask, 'What is it?'/Let us go and make our visit.
Only by acceptance of the past, can you alter it
Every end is a beginning...And every beginning is an end.
Because I do not hope to turn again Because I do not hope Because I do not hope to turn Desiring this man's gift and that man's scope I no longer strive to strive towards such things (Why should the aged eagle stretch its wings?) Why should I mourn The vanished power of the usual reign?