Poetry Is Talking On Tiptoe.

The Stench Of The Trail Of Ego In Our History. It Is Ego - Ego, The Fountain Cry, Origin, Sole Source Of War.

Speech Is The Small Change Of Silence.

Darker Grows The Valley, More And More Forgetting: So Were It With Me If Forgetting Could Be Willed. Tell The Grassy Hollow That Holds The Bubbling Well-spring, Tell It To Forget The Source That Keeps It Filled.

Behold The Life At Ease; It Drifts, The Sharpened Life Commands Its Course.

The Sun Is Coming Down To Earth, And The Fields And The Waters Shout To Him Golden Shouts.