Poetry, a Natural Thing

Neither our vices nor our virtues should take the poem forward. "They came and died just like they do every year. On the rocks."

Poetry depends on thought, emotion, and the impulse to reproduce itself-spiritual urges climbing dark stairs.

This beauty is an inner strength. To the source, struggling against the rushing current of the river, a call that we hear and the original bellows responding to the world's delay from which a young world can emerge,

The salmon is not in the well where the hazelnut falls, but at the waterfall, struggling and unclear, making it blind.

This is a perfect picture for the mind.Second: A moose painted by Stubbs, where last year's extravagant antlers lay on the ground.

A Sad moose wears face poem. New horn buds, the same,"A little heavy, a little artificial,"To be his only beauty.All Muses.

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