Trying to use words, and every attempt Is a wholly new start, and a different kind of failure Because one has only learnt to get the better of words For the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which One is no longer disposed to say it. And so each venture Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate With shabby equipment always deteriorating In the general mess of imprecision of feeling.

Ash on an old man's sleeve / Is all the ash the burnt roses leave, / Dust in the air suspended / Marks the place where a story ended.

To each individual the world will take on a different connotation of meaning-the important lies in the desire to search for an answer.

If time and space, as sages say, Are things which cannot be, The sun which does not feel decay No greater is than we. So why, Love, should we ever pray To live a century? The butterfly that lives a day Has lived eternity.

But it seems that something has happened that has never happened before: though we know not just when, or why, or how, or where.

The last thing one discovers in composing a work is what to put first.

We had the experience but missed the meaning. And approach to the meaning restores the experience in a different form.