In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing
It's not wise to violate rules until you know how to observe them.
Our lives are mostly a constant evasion of ourselves, and of our visible, sensible world.
I am moved by fancies that are curled, around these images and cling, the notion of some infinitely gentle, infinitely suffering thing.
At the still point, there the dance is.
Where shall the word be found, where will the word / Resound? Not here, there is not enough silence.