What Does Not Change Is The Will

The Body Whips The Soul. In Its Great Desire It Demands The Elixir In The Roar Of Spring, Transmutations.

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

And All Now Is War Where So Lately There Was Peace, And The Sweet Brotherhood, The Use Of Tilled Fields.

I Was Playing Catch With The European Audience.

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