The Heroes Of The Present Will Retreat

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

What Pudor Pejorocracy Affronts How Awe, Night-rest And Neighborhood Can Rot What Breeds Where Dirtiness Is Law What Crawls Below

The Poem, For Me, Is Simply The First Sound Realized In The Modality Of Being.

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.

Atlantis Will Rise Again.