Poetry is a sky dark with a wild-duck migration. - Carl Sandburg
Love is most nearly itselfWhen here and now cease to matter.Old men ought to be explorersHere or there does not matterWe must be still and still movingInto another intensityFor a further union, a deeper communionThrough the dark cold and the emptydesolation,The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast watersOf the petrel and porpoise.In my end is my beginning. T S Eliot
Thank you S. That means a lot.
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