In The Garden I Will Die. In

There Is Nothing More Poetic And Terrible Than The Skyscrapers' Battle With The Heavens That Cover Them. Snow, Rain, And Mist Highlight, Drench, Or Conceal The Vast Towers, But Those Towers, Hostile To Mystery And Blind To Any Sort Of Play, Shear Off The Rain's Tresses And Shine Their Three Thousand Swords Through The Soft Swan Of The Fog.

A Poet Must Be A Professor Of The Five Senses And Must Open Doors Among Them.

The Day Hunger Disappears, The World Will See The Greatest Spiritual Explosion Humanity Has Ever Seen.

My Head Is Full Of Fire And Grief And My Tongue Runs Wild, Pierced With Shards Of Glass.

Love Is The Kiss In The Quiet Nest While The Leaves Are Trembling, Mirrored In The Water.