Death Is The Stone Into Which Our

In The House Of Poetry Nothing Endures That Is Not Written With Blood To Be Heard With Blood.

In Love, You Have Loosened Yourself Like Seawater

He Who Does Not Travel, Who Does Not Read, Who Does Not Listen To Music, Who Does Not Find Grace In Himself, She Who Does Not Find Grace In Herself, Dies Slowly.

Your Wide Eyes Are The Only Light I Know From Extinguished Constellations.

And I Watch My Words From A Long Way Off. They Are More Yours Than Mine. They Climb On My Old Suffering Like Ivy.