Love Is The Voice Under All Silences,

If At The End Of Your First Ten Or Fifteen Years Of Fighting And Working And Feeling, You Find You've Written One Line Of One Poem, You'll Be Very Lucky Indeed.

When Man Determined To Destroy Himself He Picked The Was Of Shall And Finding Only Why Smashed It Into Because.

My Mother Hoped That I Would Die Etcetera Bravely Of Course My Father Used To Become Hoarse Talking About How It Was A Privilege And If Only He Could

Nothing Which We Are To Perceive In This World Equals The Power Of Your Intense Fragility:whose Texture Compels Me With The Colour Of Its Countries, Rendering Death And Forever With Each Breathing (i Do Not Know What It Is About You That Closes And Opens;only Something In Me Understands The Voice Of Your Eyes Is Deeper Than All Roses) Nobody,not Even The Rain, Has Such Small Hands -excerpt Of #35 From "100 Selected Poems

Here's To Opening And Upward... And To Yourself And Up With You And Up With And Up With Laughing.