Forgive Me If I Sleep Until I

There Is A Grace Of Life Which Is Still Yours, My Dear Europe.

The Flowers Are Ravined By Bees, The Fruit Blossoms Are Thrown To The Ground, The Wind The Rain Forces Everything.

One Loves Only Form, And Form Only Comes Into Existence When The Thing Is Born.

A Poem Is Energy Transferred From Where The Poet Got It (he Will Have Some Several Causations), By Way Of The Poem Itself To, All The Way Over To, The Reader.

Fact Is Based Upon Vulgar Matter.