What is more exalting than a good rest
after a good hard day of work...

These roads are eloquent
in every inarticulate turn...

Resolving past in future
that is why...

The true love is when
one love something for itself...

Hiding in behind
the beauty of your own mask...

Little lamb munching
on the sunset lawn before...

My laceration
and your thorns are what the red...

It was deep inside the wound of that tramp
that I learned to be a gentleman...

All these roads are as the print of lashes
on his body...

If you truly love her,
before sinking into the murky eddy...

He mumbled:
_for a man who writes just for his shadow...

Days and they are gone
but his deeds remain, indeed...