All night you waited for morning,
all morning
for afternoon,
all afternoon for night;
and still the longing sings.
—Ruth Stone—
A taste of you slipped
into me
like moonlight in a
locked church.
—Janet Lees—
the light comes…
My story isn’t sweet and harmonious, like invented stories.
It tastes of folly and bewilderment, of madness and dream,
like the life of all people who no longer want to lie to themselves.— Hermann Hesse —
