Do Tears Not Yet Spilled Wait In

You Are Like Nobody Since I Love You.

Do Tears Not Yet Spilled Wait In Small Lakes?

It Was At That Age That Poetry Came In Search Of Me.

The Morning Is Full Of Storm In The Heart Of Summer. The Clouds Travel Like White Handkerchiefs Of Goodbye, The Wind, Travelling, Waving Them In Its Hands. The Numberless Heart Of The Wind Beating Above Our Loving Silence. Orchestral And Divine, Resounding Among The Trees Like A Language Full Of Wars And Songs.

Everything Is Ceremony In The Wild Garden Of Childhood.