If Anything Might Hurt Her, Silence Would;

He Felt Himself In Suspension Between The Two Worlds, The Warm, Neat Civilization Behind His Back, The Cool, Dark Mystery Outside. We All Write Poems; It Is Simply That Poets Are The Ones Who Write In Words.

The Ordinary Man Is The Curse Of Civilization.

The Bowed Head, The Buried Face. She Is Silent, She Will Never Speak, Never Forgive, Never Reach A Hand, Never Leave This Frozen Present Tense. All Waits, Suspended. Suspended The Autumn Trees, The Autumn Sky, Anonymous People. A Blackbird, Poor Fool, Sings Out Of Season From The Willows By The Lake. A Flight Of Pigeons Over The Houses; Fragments Of Freedom, Hazard, An Anagram Made Flesh. And Somewhere The Stinging Smell Of Burning Leaves.

The Dead Live." "how Do They Live?" "by Love.

I Am Going To Explain To You Why We Went To War. Why Mankind Always Goes To War. It Is Not Social Or Political. It Is Not Countries That Go To War, But Men. It Is Like Salt. Once One Has Been To War, One Has Salt For The Rest Of One's Life. Do You Understand?