There Is No Insurmountable Solitude.

And What Has Become Of It, Where Is That Onetime Love? Now It Is The Grave Of A Bird, A Drop Of Black Quartz, A Chunk Of Wood Eroded By The Rain.

The Road Made Wet By The Water Of August Shines Like It Was Cut In Full Moonlight

In The Distance Someone Is Singing.

A Child Who Does Not Play Is Not A Child, But The Man Who Doesn't Play Has Lost Forever The Child Who Lived In Him And Who He Will Miss Terribly.

Like Them You Are Tall And Taciturn, And You Are Sad, All At Once, Like A Voyage.