When A Writer Declares That His First

I See What I Want Of Love... I See Horses Making The Meadow Dance, Fifty Guitars Sighing, And A Swarm Of Bees Suckling The Wild Berries, And I Close My Eyes Until I See Our Shadow Behind This Dispossessed Place... I See What I Want Of People: Their Desire To Long For Anything, Their Lateness In Getting To Work And Their Hurry To Return To Their Folk... And Their Need To Say: Good Morning.

And What I Don't Understand I Grasp It Only When It's Too Late.

My Love, I Fear The Silence Of Your Hands.

Have I Had Two Roads, I Would Have Chosen Their Third.

Without Hope We Are Lost.