My Love, I Fear The Silence Of

The Poem Is In My Hands, And Can Run Stories Through Her Hands.

And You Became Like Coffee, In The Deliciousness, And The Bitterness, And The Addiction.

If The Olive Trees Knew The Hands That Planted Them, Their Oil Would Become Tears.

If You Live, Live Free Or Die Like The Trees, Standing Up.

I Believe In The Power Of Poetry, Which Gives Me Reasons To Look Ahead And Identify A Glint Of Light.