And the poem, I think, is only your voice speaking.

I see through most people; I'm hardly ever wrong. I see at once what they've got in them.

One ought to sink to the bottom of the sea, probably, and live alone with one's words.

The flower bloomed and faded. The sun rose and sank. The lover loved and went. And what the poets said in rhyme, the young translated into practice.

Life stand still here.

What is the meaning of life? That was all- a simple question; one that tended to close in on one with years, the great revelation had never come. The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead, there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark; here was one.

Some people go to priests; others to poetry; I to my friends.