I listen to your stories Searching for a blessing In disguise, all I see is You and me, stark naked Near a fire, another blessing Disguised by the warmth of our closeness Fluttering and crackling Much like our drowsy eyes That see a lot, but, speak more Let us talk with our eyes They are much more honest Than the disguise of blessed words
One becomes a critic when one cannot be an artist, just as a man becomes a stool pigeon when he cannot be a soldier. - Gustave Flaubert