I rest my pen now,but only for a few daysso I may reflectand also refill the inkthat is drained out completely
What happened in the woods
I drank from the cupof the flowing stream of verseand was thus poisonedwith the charms of what can bein one's imagination
Perhaps all my wordswill be cherished when I'm goneaging like fine wine…Appreciation in death'sthe tragedy of poets
A handful of joyfrom the gates of paradisewas every man's lot…Some returned with interestothers, like me, lost it all
If life is Maya I don't want to know a thingthat in truth is saidI only need lies and love... Truth can have me when I'm dead
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