No One Can Shed Light

The Truly Erotic Sensibility, In Evoking The Image Of Woman, Never Omits To Clothe It. The Robing And Disrobing: That Is The True Traffic Of Love.

Hell Is The Bloodcurdling Mansion Of Time, In Whose Profoundest Circle Satan Himself Waits, Winding A Gargantuan Watch In His Hand.

My Soul Is Not Asleep. It Is Awake, Wide Awake. It Neither Sleeps Nor Dreams, But Watches, Its Eyes Wide Open Far-off Things, And Listens At The Shores Of The Great Silence.

The Afternoon Is Bright, With Spring In The Air, A Mild March Afternoon, With The Breath Of April Stirring, I Am Alone In The Quiet Patio Looking For Some Old Untried Illusion - Some Shadow On The Whiteness Of The Wall Some Memory Asleep On The Stone Rim Of The Fountain, Perhaps In The Air The Light Swish Of Some Trailing Gown.

Wanderer, Your Footsteps Are The Road, And Nothing More; Wanderer, There Is No Road, The Road Is Made By Walking. By Walking One Makes The Road, And Upon Glancing Behind One Sees The Path That Never Will Be Trod Again. Wanderer, There Is No Road-- Only Wakes Upon The Sea. Caminante, Son Tus Huellas El Camino, Y Nada Más; Caminante, No Hay Camino, Se Hace Camino Al Andar. Al Andar Se Hace Camino, Y Al Volver La Vista Atrás Se Ve La Senda Que Nunca Se Ha De Volver A Pisar. Caminante, No Hay Camino, Sino Estelas En La Mar.