Am a human filled with love and despair, nobody to turn too, so I turn to my pages and my sheets.
My ink drips what I am and truly feel
am a voice
I stand worth of many possibilities
...
OUT of the cradle endlessly rocking,
Out of the mocking-bird's throat, the musical shuttle,
Out of the Ninth-month midnight,
Over the sterile sands, and the fields beyond, where the child,
leaving his bed, wander'd alone, bare-headed, barefoot,
Down from the shower'd halo,
Up from the mystic play of shadows, twining and twisting as if they
were alive,
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