Now My Belly Is As Noble As

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

Love That Stammers, That Stutters, Is Apt To Be The Love That Loves Best.

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.

We Are Guilty Of Many Errors And Many Faults, But Our Worst Crime Is Abandoning The Children, Neglecting The Fountain Of Life. Many Of The Things We Need Can Wait. The Child Cannot. Right Now Is The Time His Bones Are Being Formed, His Blood Is Being Made, And His Senses Are Being Developed. To Him We Cannot Answer 'tomorrow.' His Name Is 'today.'

What The Soul Is To The Body, So Is The Artist To His People.