On The Day The World Ends A

At Every Sunrise I Renounce The Doubts Of Night And Greet The New Day Of A Most Precious Delusion.

From Life, From The Apple Cut By The Flaming Knife, What Grain Will Be Saved? My Son, Believe Me, Nothing Remains, Only Adult Toil, The Furrow Of Fate In The Palm. Only Toil, Nothing More.

Learning To Believe You Are Magnificent. And Gradually To Discover That You Are Not Magnificent. Enough Labor For One Human Life.

I Have Defined Poetry As A 'passionate Pursuit Of The Real.

Even If That Is So, There Will Remain A Word Wakened By Lips That Perish, A Tireless Messenger Who Runs And Runs Through Interstellar Fields, Through The Revolving Galaxies, And Calls Out, Protests, Screams.