The poet speaksOf this, of thatThe tide surgesHigh, volcanoes flowFrivolous words fallFragile from his lipsAnd bright glisteningDew forms on butterfly..
It is peaceful, where I sit and how I sit there.Off in a distance are the noises of the unnatural.Machines, voices, haste.All these things racing by, ..
A moment sits still as the glassy surfaceof a high mountain lake in the few seconds before dawn.A bird chirps and the sound is instantly swallowed as ..