Not Till The Fire Is Dying In

Speech Is The Small Change Of Silence.

Lowly, With A Broken Neck, The Crocus Lays Her Cheek To Mire.

A House With A Great Wine Stored Below Lives In Our Imagination As A Joyful House, Fast And Splendidly Rooted In The Soil.

The Future Not Being Born, My Friend, We Will Abstain From Baptizing It.

Could I Find A Place To Be Alone With Heaven, I Would Speak My Heart Out Heaven Is My Need.