Whoever Brought Me Here Will Have To

God Writes Spiritual Mysteries On Our Heart, Where They Wait Silently For Discovery.

Heartsick, Heartbroken - To Know Love Is To Know Pain. What Could Be More Common? Even So, Each Broken Heart Is So Singular That With It We Probe The Divine.

There's No Need To Travel Anywhere. Journey Within Yourself.

In Winter The Bare Boughs That Seem To Sleep Work Covertly, Preparing For Their Spring.

The Meaning Of Poetry Has No Sureness Of Direction; Is Like The Sling, It Is Not Under Control.