On sait à peu près pourquoi une œuvre est mauvaise. Mais bien moins pourquoi elle est bonne. - LeRoy C. Breunig

POST

Not a head stands out
A finger rises
Then it is the voice that one knows
A signal

a brief note

A man leaves
Up above a cloud that passes by
No one goes in
And the night keeps its secret

The happiness of man is devoid of chlorophyll no doubt because its specific condition is to evolve in the darkest and dankest caves of the heart.

There is hardly more than the eyes, the open air, the grass and the water in the distance . . .