Green How I Want You

In Each Thing There Is An Insinuation Of Death. Stillness, Silence, Serenity Are All Apprenticeships.

Woodcutter. Cut My Shadow From Me. Free Me From The Torment Of Being Without Fruit. Why Was I Born Among Mirrors? Day Goes Round And Round Me. The Night Copies Me In All Its Stars. I Want To Live Without My Reflection. And Then Let Me Dream That Ants And Thistledown Are My Leaves And My Parrots.

A Nation That Does Not Support And Encourage Its Theater Is - If Not Dead - Dying; Just As A Theater That Does Not Capture With Laughter And Tears The Social And Historical Pulse, The Drama Of Its People, The Genuine Color Of The Spiritual And Natural Landscape, Has No Right To Call Itself Theater; But Only A Place For Amusement.

The Weeping Of The Guitar Begins. The Goblets Of Dawn Are Smashed. The Weeping Of The Guitar Begins. Useless To Silence It. Impossible To Silence It. It Weeps Monotonously As Water Weeps As The Wind Weeps Over Snowfields. Impossible To Silence It. It Weeps For Distant Things. Hot Southern Sands Yearning For White Camellias. Weeps Arrow Without Target Evening Without Morning And The First Dead Bird On The Branch. Oh, Guitar! Heart Mortally Wounded By Five Swords.

Just As The Light And Weightless Vegetation Of Saltpeter Floats Over The Old Walls Of Houses As Soon As The Owner Gets Careless, So The Literary Vocation Springs Up In You.