Do we ask questions because we require illumination

or

are we driven by a primordial impulse to enhance confusion?

 

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What's more precious,

the sigh of departure

or

the tear of reconciliation?

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Is there poetry in this strange lust that the sun has for the river bed, that it would unclothe its flowing garments, one drop at a time?

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And bus stops that watched us grow from child to man to child again are they saddened that in circular transformation we never saw its face?

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Isn't it true that  those who set fire to the thicket do so because they are intimidated by the dark and its secrets?

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