One Day, I Watched The

Sitting In The Flickering Light Of The Candles On This Kerchief Of Sand, On This Village Square, We Waited In The Night. We Were Waiting For The Rescuing Dawn - Or For The Moors. Something, I Know Not What, Lent This Night A Savor Of Christmas. We Told Stories, We Joked, We Sang Songs. In The Air There Was That Slight Fever That Reigns Over A Gaily Prepared Feast. And Yet We Were Infinitely Poor. Wind, Sand, And Stars. The Austerity Of Trappists. But On This Badly Lighted Cloth, A Handful Of Men Who Possessed Nothing In The World But Their Memories Were Sharing Invisible Riches.

Nobody Grasped You By The Shoulder While There Was Still Time. Now The Clay Of Which You Were Shaped Has Dried And Hardened, And Naught In You Will Ever Awaken The Sleeping Musician, The Poet, The Asronomer That Possibly Inhabited You In The Beginning.

It Is The Missed Opportunity That Counts, And In A Love That Vainly Yearns From Behind Prison Bars You Have Perchance The Love Supreme.

Perfection Is Not When There Is No More To Add, But No More To Take Away.

I Shall Look At You Out Of The Corner Of My Eye, And You Will Say Nothing. Words Are The Source Of Misunderstandings." -from The Fox-