Who doesn’t love br roses, and who br doesn’t love the lilies br of the black ponds br br floating like flocks br of tiny swans, br and of course, the flaming br trumpet vine br br where the hummingbird comes br like a small green angel, to soak br his dark tongue br in happiness - br br and who doesn’t want br to live with the brisk br motor of his heart br singing br br like a Schubert br and his eyes br working and working like those days of rapture, br by Van Gogh in Arles? br br Look! for most of the world br is waiting br or remembering - br most of the world is time br br when we’re not here, br not born yet, or died - br a slow fire br under the earth with all br our dumb wild blind cousins br who also br can’t even remember anymore br their own happiness - br br Look! and then we will be br like the pale cool br stones, that last almost br forever.