A Lion Is Made Up Of The

And If The Soul Is To Know Itself It Is Into A Soul That It Must Look: The Stranger And The Enemy, We've Seen Him In The Mirror.

Like A Bird With Broken Wing That Has Traveled Through Wind For Years . . . I Sleep And My Heart Stays Awake . . .

A Lion Is Made Up Of The Lambs He's Digested.

For Poetry There Exists Neither Large Countries Nor Small. Its Domain Is In The Heart Of All Men.

They Were Lovely, Your Eyes, But You Didn't Know Where To Look.