Nothing In The Cry Of Cicadas Suggests

An Autumn Night - Don’t Think Your Life Didn’t Matter.

In This Poor Body, Composed Of One Hundred Bones And Nine Openings, Is Something Called Spirit, A Flimsy Curtain Swept This Way And That By The Slightest Breeze. It Is Spirit, Such As It Is, Which Led Me To Poetry, At First Little More Than A Pastime, Then The Full Business Of My Life. There Have Been Times When My Spirit, So Dejected, Almost Gave Up The Quest, Other Times When It Was Proud, Triumphant. So It Has Been From The Very Start, Never Finding Peace With Itself, Always Doubting The Worth Of What It Makes.

Calm And Serene The Sound Of A Cicada Penetrates The Rock.

Every Day Is A Journey, And The Journey Itself Is Home.

Real Poetry, Is To Lead A Beautiful Life. To Live Poetry Is Better Than To Write It.