I watched the waves of days,
laden with rue and sorrow...

Oh lovely one, oh lovely one,
so gentle...

The nightingale loves the rose,
but its love is fragile...

In the throat of an hourglass,
all tilts, all turns...

The Tragic Death of My Quail:
Hey...

Why is the exact never attained,
yet ceaselessly sought...

Hand and guitar,
concave and convex...

The supermarket,
though filled with goods...

All things interpret all other things—
each refracting the rest...

Lo—
they crusade to crucify...

Religions are the shadows
cast by the candle of Truth...

All speech is made
to vanish...