The History Of My Stupidity Would Fill

Poetry Is A Dividend From What You Know And What You Are.

The Purpose Of Poetry Is To Remind Us / How Difficult It Is To Remain Just One Person.

We Have Become Indifferent To Content, And React, Not Even To Form, But To Technique, To Technical Efficiency Itself.

Forget The Suffering You Caused Others. Forget The Suffering Others Caused You. The Waters Run And Run, Springs Sparkle And Are Done, You Walk The Earth You Are Forgetting. Sometimes You Hear A Distant Refrain. What Does It Mean, You Ask, Who Is Singing? A Childlike Sun Grows Warm. A Grandson And A Great-grandson Are Born. You Are Led By The Hand Once Again. The Names Of The Rivers Remain With You. How Endless Those Rivers Seem! Your Fields Lie Fallow, The City Towers Are Not As They Were. You Stand At The Threshold Mute.

Grow Your Tree Of Falsehood From A Small Grain Of Truth.