Out of the quarrel with others we make rhetoric; out of the quarrel with ourselves we make poetry. (W.B. Yeats)
Here lies that which is inside no more, that which burns my mind and must be expelled. Here lies the greatest of all inventions. Here lies words.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Love
When love finds you
Grip it with both hands
Hold it tightly
And never let it go
For although, you know,
The lover may depart
Take tenderly and sweetly
The soft desire left
And cradle it for ever more
So it wipes away the pain
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