Poetry Is News Brought To The Mountains

They Used To Pour Millet On Graves Or Poppy Seeds To Feed The Dead Who Would Come Disguised As Birds. I Put This Book Here For You, Who Once Lived So That You Should Visit Us No More.

If I Am All Mankind, Are They Themselves Without Me?

What Is This Enigmatic Impulse That Does Not Allow One To Settle Down In The Achieved, The Finished? I Think It Is A Quest For Reality.

All Was Taken Away From You: White Dresses, Wings, Even Existence. Yet I Believe You, Messengers. There, Where The World Is Turned Inside Out, A Heavy Fabric Embroidered With Stars And Beasts, You Stroll, Inspecting The Trustworthy Seams.

A True Opium Of The People Is A Belief In Nothingness After Death.