The life we’re given is on a thread, so wear it well.
At the edge of madness you howl diamonds and pearls.
Evening came, a paw, to the gray hut by the river.
God is a cloud from which rain fell.
They blossomed, they did not talk about blossoming.
Now that we are all so smart, we don’t easily find resolutions.
I had never known any man to die while speaking in terza-rima
poets. have the toughest jobin the universe-of turning silenceinto eloquence.
Nobility is not only in forgiveness.
Absolute equals nothingness.
Poets create gods, philosophers destroy them.
A poem in the heart is worthmore than a million dollarsin the bank account.
The light teaches you to convert life into a festive promenade.
Rare-book people have this in common with poets: they too are born, not made.
Poets sing our human music for us.
And when they dusted my mind for your fingerprints they found yours.
Cosmos is God, who whispered the syllable of life.
They grew; they did not talk about growing.
Holy books are an insult to a God with good intentions.
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