To the birds you gave songs, the birds gave you songs in return. You gave me only a voice, yet asked for more, thus I sing.

Once we dreamt that we were strangers. We wake up to find that we were dear to each other.

I'll never wake up in a good mood again. I'm tired of these stinky boots.

Poetry is what is lost in translation. It is also what is lost in interpretation.

Butterflies...flowers that fly and all but sing.

The tree the tempest with a crash of woodThrows down in front of us is not to barOur passage to our journey's end for good,But just to ask us who we think we are.