Well, Yes: People Write Poems When They

If You Looked Down To The Bottom Of My Soul, You Would Understand Fully The Source Of My Longing And – Pity Me. Even The Open, Transparent Lake Has Its Unknown Depths, Which No Divers Know.

There Was Once A Bundle Of Matches, And They Were Frightfully Proud Because Of Their High Origin. Their Family Tree, That Is To Say The Great Pine Tree Of Which They Were Each A Little Splinter, Had Been The Giant Of The Forest.

Then She Saw A Star Fall, Leaving Behind It A Bright Streak Of Fire. “someone Is Dying,” Thought The Little Girl, For Her Old Grandmother, The Only One Who Had Ever Loved Her, And Who Was Now Dead, Had Told Her That When A Star Falls, A Soul Was Going Up To God.

Where Words Fail, Music Speaks.

I Only Appear To Be Dead.