The Wolf Is Living For The Earth.

The Sea Cries With Its Meaningless Voice, Treating Alike Its Dead And Its Living

With A Sudden Sharp Hot Stink Of Fox, It Enters The Dark Hole Of The Head. The Window Is Starless Still; The Clock Ticks, The Page Is Printed.

So We Found The End Of Our Journey. So We Stood, Alive In The River Of Light, Among The Creatures Of Light, Creatures Of Light.

I Think It Was Milosz, The Polish Poet, Who When He Lay In A Doorway And Watched The Bullets Lifting The Cobbles Out Of The Street Beside Him Realised That Most Poetry Is Not Equipped For Life In A World Where People Actually Die. But Some Is.

The Real Mystery Is This Strange Need. Why Can't We Just Hide It And Shut Up? Why Do We Have To Blab? Why Do Human Beings Need To Confess?