Poets, Like The Blind, Can See In

Writing Is Only A Guided Dream.

When Writers Die They Become Books, Which Is, After All, Not Too Bad An Incarnation.

The Original Is Unfaithful To The Translation.

Leaving Behind The Babble Of The Plaza, I Enter The Library. I Feel, Almost Physically, The Gravitation Of The Books, The Enveloping Serenity Of Order, Time Magically Dessicated And Preserved.

Best Thing To Happen For A Poet. A Fine Death, No? An Impressive Death.