Your Voice Is Wild And Simple. You

You Do Not Know Just What You've Been Forgiven.

As The Future Ripens In The Past, So The Past Rots In The Future -- A Terrible Festival Of Dead Leaves.

You Will Hear Thunder And Remember Me, And Think: She Wanted Storms.

A Land Not Mine, Still Forever Memorable, The Waters Of Its Ocean Chill And Fresh. Sand On The Bottom Whiter Than Chalk, And The Air Drunk, Like Wine, Late Sun Lays Bare The Rosy Limbs Of The Pinetrees. Sunset In The Ethereal Waves: I Cannot Tell If The Day Is Ending, Or The World, Or If The Secret Of Secrets Is Inside Me Again.

And It Seemed To Me That There Were Fires Flying Till Dawn Without Number And I Never Found Out Things-those Strange Eyes Of His-what Colour? Everything Trembling And Singing And Were You My Enemy Or My Friend, Winter Was It Or Summer?