who are you? which gale winds have blown you here? which fallen saint showed you the way? besieged by you, old loves abandoned in dark cemeteries lament like choirs in my Hellenistic Greece virgin thighs ferment inside your blood scared azaleas tremble on my pillows step in my room and know no fear unravel poems from your battered heart scent the roses with my fantasies’ Levant weave lies into the brocade of my sofas make those satyrs with horse ears to shut up * let’s dwell in silence for a minute... then tell me how you landed here and who are you my darling soneteer?
“The artist is the creator of beautiful things. To reveal art and conceal the artist is art’s aim. The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things.”
LORD MARTIN 