Let Us Define 'man' As A Poet

No History Much? Perhaps. Only This Ominous Dark Beauty Flowering Under Veils, Trapped In The Spectrum Of A Dying Style: A Village Like An Instinct Left To Rust, Composed Around The Echo Of A Pistol-shot.

A City Becomes A World When One Loves One Of Its Inhabitants.

The Steward, According To Custom, Had Stopped All The Clocks. This, In The Language Of Narouz, Said "your Stay With Us Is So Brief, Let Us Not Be Reminded Of The Flight Of The Hours."

I Suppose The Secret Of His Success Is In His Tremendous Idleness Which Almost Approaches The Supernatural.

Everyone Loathes His Own Country And Countrymen If He Is Any Sort Of Artist.