What The Soul Is To The Body,

Many Things Can Wait. Children Cannot. Today Their Bones Are Being Formed, Their Blood Is Being Made, Their Senses Are Being Developed. To Them We Cannot Say "tomorrow." Their Name Is Today.

In The Secret Of Night, My Prayer Climbs Like The Liana, My Prayer Is, And I Am Not. It Grows, And I Perish. I Have Only My Hard Breath, My Reason And My Madness. I Cling To The Vine Of My Prayer. I Tend It At The Root Of The Stalk Of Night.

There Is The Joy Of Being Healthy And Fair, But There Is Overall The Beauty, The Immense Joy Of Being Useful.

The Poet Is An Untier Of Knots, And Love Without Words Is A Knot, And It Drowns.

Writing Tends To Cheer Me; It Always Soothes My Spirit And Blesses Me With The Gift Of An Innocent, Tender, Childlike Day. It Is The Sensation Of Having Spent A Few Hours In My Homeland, With My Customs, Free Whims, My Total Freedom.