In Order To Write Poetry, You Must

Has My Heart Gone To Sleep? Have The Beehives Of My Dreams Stopped Working, The Waterwheel Of The Mind Run Dry, Scoops Turning Empty, Only Shadow Inside? No, My Heart Is Not Asleep. It Is Awake, Wide Awake. Not Asleep, Not Dreaming— Its Eyes Are Opened Wide Watching Distant Signals, Listening On The Rim Of Vast Silence

Only A Fool Thinks Price And Value Are The Same.

And To Walk Through Life In Dreams Out Of Love For The Hand That Guides Us.

All Uncertainty Is Fruitfull ... So Long As It Is Accompanied By The Wish To Understand

Man Would Be "otherwise." That's The Essence Of The Specifically Human.