Love That Stammers, That Stutters, Is Apt

My Grief And My Smile Begin In Your Face, My Son.

There Is The Joy Of Being Healthy And Fair, But There Is Overall The Beauty, The Immense Joy Of Being Useful.

The Poet Is An Untier Of Knots, And Love Without Words Is A Knot, And It Drowns.

In The Secret Of Night, My Prayer Climbs Like The Liana, My Prayer Is, And I Am Not. It Grows, And I Perish. I Have Only My Hard Breath, My Reason And My Madness. I Cling To The Vine Of My Prayer. I Tend It At The Root Of The Stalk Of Night.

What The Soul Is To The Body, So Is The Artist To His People.