By Mourning Tongues The Death Of The

Water Is The Soul Of The Earth.

There Is No Love; There Are Only The Various Envies, All Of Them Sad.

Lost In A Haunted Wood, Children Afraid Of The Night Who Have Never Been Happy Or Good.

But If A Stranger In The Train Asks Me My Occupation, I Never Answer "writer" For Fear That He May Go On To Ask Me What I Write, And To Answer "poetry" Would Embarrass Us Both, For We Both Know That Nobody Can Earn A Living Simply By Writing Poetry.

The Sky Is Darkening Like A Stain Something Is Going To Fall Like Rain And It Won't Be Flowers