There Were Thirst And Hunger, And You

Like Them You Are Tall And Taciturn, And You Are Sad, All At Once, Like A Voyage.

Love, How Many Roads To Obtain A Kiss.

You Are Like Night, Calmed, Constellated. Your Silence Is Star-like, As Distant, As True.

For Me Writing Is Like Breathing. I Could Not Live Without Breathing And I Could Not Live Without Writing.

The Word Was Born In The Blood, Grew In The Dark Body, Beating, And Took Flight Through The Lips And The Mouth. Farther Away And Nearer Still, Still It Came From Dead Fathers And From Wondering Races, From Lands Which Had Turned To Stone, Lands Weary Of Their Poor Tribes, For When Grief Took To The Roads The People Set Out And Arrived And Married New Land And Water To Grow Their Words Again. And So This Is The Inheritance; This Is The Wavelength Which Connects Us With Dead Men And The Dawning Of New Beings Not Yet Come To Light.