Writing. Love Is Writing.

Alas, Day, You Brought Light, You Trailed Splendour You Showed Us God: I Salute You, Most Precious One, But I Go To A New Place, Another Life.

Who Dreams Of A Son, Save One, Childless, Having No Bright Face To Flatter Its Own, Who Dreams Of A Son?

There Is No Man Can Take, There Is No Pool Can Slake, Ultimately I Am Alone; Ultimately I Am Done.

The Fallen Hazel-nuts, Stripped Late Of Their Green Sheaths, The Grapes, Red-purple, Their Berries Dripping With Wine, Pomegranates Already Broken, And Shrunken Fig, And Quinces Untouched, I Bring Thee As Offering.

Ardent Yet Chill And Formal, How I Ache To Tempt A Chisel As A Sculptor.