The Sky, At Sunset, Looked

Dreams Fade With Morning Light, Never A Morn For Thee, Dreamer Of Dreams, Goodnight.

I'd Obviously Never Heard Of The Group, But My Ignorance In Literary Matters Is To Blame For That (every Book In The World Is Out There Waiting To Be Read By Me).

Bright Colours In The West, Giant Butterflies Dancing As Night Crept Like A Cripple Toward The East.

Poetry And Prison Have Always Been Neighbors.

We Never Stop Reading, Although Every Book Comes To An End, Just As We Never Stop Living, Although Death Is Certain.