Damned, Damned Be The Rich! May Not

Death, Lonely Death, Beneath The Withered Leaves.

The World Is A Shoulder Of Dark Meat (black Flesh Of An Old Mule). And The Light Is On The Other Side.

While The Poet Wrestles With The Horses On His Brain And The Sculptor Wounds His Eyes On The Hard Spark Of Alabaster, The Dancer Battles The Air Around Her, Air That Threatens At Any Moment To Destroy Her Harmony Or To Open Huge Open Empty Spaces Where Her Rhythm Will Be Annihilated.

The Dancer's Trembling Heart Must Bring Everything Into Harmony, From The Tips Of Her Shoes To The Flutter Of Her Eyelashes, From The Ruffles Of Her Dress To The Incessant Play Of Her Fingers.

The Snow Is Falling On The Deserted Field Of My Life, And My Hopes, Which Roam Far, Are Afraid Of Becoming Frozen Or Lost.