I Am Not At All Clear What

Till I, High In The Tower Of My Time Among Familiar Ruins, Began To Cry For Accident, Sickness, Justice, War And Crime, Because All Died, Because I Had To Die. The Snow Fell, The Trees Stood, The Promise Kept, And A Child I Slept.

I Think There's One Thing Which Distinguishes Our Art - We Don't Consider. We Don't Think. We Write A Little Verse Because It Comes To Us.

Children, To Be Illustrious Is Sad.

History Is One Of Those Marvelous And Necessary Illusions We Have To Deal With. It's One Of The Ways Of Dealing With Our World With Impossible Generalities Which We Couldn't Live Without.

Mostly The Thought And The Verse Come Inseparably. In My Poem Poetics, It's As Close As I Come To Telling How I Do It.