We Thought: We're Poor, We Have Nothing,

As The Future Ripens In The Past, So The Past Rots In The Future -- A Terrible Festival Of Dead Leaves.

I Go Forth To Seek To Seek And Claim The Lovely Magic Garden Where Grasses Softly Sigh And Muses Speak.

This Land, Although Not My Native Land, Will Be Remembered Forever. And The Sea's Lightly Iced, Unsalty Water. The Sand On The Bottom Is Whiter Than Chalk, The Air Is Heady, Like Wine, And The Rosy Body Of The Pines Is Naked In The Sunset Hour. And The Sunset Itself On Such Waves Of Ether That I Just Can't Comprehend Whether It Is The End Of The Day, The End Of The World, Or The Mystery Of Mysteries In Me Again.

The Whole Time I Was Hoping My Silence Would Fit Yours And Exclamation Marks Would Gently Float Across Time And Space So That Boundaries Would Be Crossed; The Whole Time I Was Praying You Would Read My Eyes And Understand What I Was Never Able To Understand. See, We Were Never About Butterflies. We’ve Always Been About Burning Stars. All About Us Is Unearthly And Radiant.

Song Falls Silent, Music Is Dumb, But The Air Burns With Their Fragrance, And White Winter, On Its Knees, Observes Everything With Reverent Attention.