Dance Until The Earth Dance.

I Knew The Poor, I Knew The Hideous Death They Die, When Famine Lays Its Bleak Hand On The Door; I Knew The Rich, Sated With Merriment, Who Yet Are Sad.

Not God With Wine, Nor Death, Nor Hate For A Cry, But God With A Song

Ardent Yet Chill And Formal, How I Ache To Tempt A Chisel As A Sculptor.

My Eye-balls Are Glass, My Limbs Marble, My Face Fixed In Its Marble Mask.

Writing. Love Is Writing.