They Were Lovely, Your Eyes, But You

They Were Lovely, Your Eyes, But You Didn't Know Where To Look.

For Poetry There Exists Neither Large Countries Nor Small. Its Domain Is In The Heart Of All Men.

You Spoke About Things They Couldn't See And So They Laughed. Yet To Row Up The Dark River Against The Current, To Take The Unknown Road Blindly, Stubbornly, And To Search For Words Rooted Like The Knotted Olive Tree- Let Them Laugh. And To Yearn For The Other World To Inhabit Today's Suffocating Loneliness, This Ravaged Present- Let Them Be.

A Lion Is Made Up Of The Lambs He's Digested.

And If The Soul Is To Know Itself It Is Into A Soul That It Must Look: The Stranger And The Enemy, We've Seen Him In The Mirror.