Between Living And Dreaming There Is A

The Wind, One Brilliant Day, Called To My Soul With An Odor Of Jasmine. "in Return For The Odor Of My Jasmine, I'd Like All The Odor Of Your Roses." "i Have No Roses; All The Flowers In My Garden Are Dead." "well Then, I'll Take The Withered Petals And The Yellow Leaves And The Waters Of The Fountain." The Wind Left. And I Wept. And I Said To Myself: "what Have You Done With The Garden That Was Entrusted To You?

What The Poet Is Searching For Is Not The Fundamental I But The Deep You.

I Dreamt -- Marvellous Error! -- That I Had A Beehive Here Inside My Heart. And The Golden Bees Were Making White Combs And Sweet Honey From My Old Failures.

At The Very Smallest Wheel Of Our Reasoning It Is Possible For A Handful Of Questions To Break The Bank Of Our Answers.

It Is Good Knowing That Glasses Are To Drink From; The Bad Thing Is Not To Know What Thirst Is For.