Many Of Today's Verses Are Prose And

Art Is The Production Of Objects For Consumption, To Be Used And Discarded While Waiting For A New World In Which Man Will Have Succeeded In Freeing Himself Of Everything, Even Of His Own Consciousness.

This Proves That Great Lyric Poetry Can Die, Be Reborn, Die Again, But Will Always Remain One Of The Most Outstanding Creations Of The Human Soul.

In Reality Art Is Always For Everyone And For No One.

Today Not Even A Universal Fire Could Make The Torrential Poetic Production Of Our Time Disappear. But It Is Exactly A Question Of Production, That Is, Of Hand-made Products Which Are Subject To The Laws Of Taste And Fashion.

Happiness, For You We Walk On A Knife Edge. To The Eyes You Are A Flickering Light, To The Feet, Thin Ice That Cracks; And So May No One Touch You Who Loves You.