[Poetry] may make us from time to time a little aware of the deeper unnamed feelings which form the substratum of our being, to which we rarely penetrate; for our lives are mostly a constant evasion of ourselves.
T.S.Eliot
Monday, October 1, 2012
What remains of the hot days
The herbs of my little roof-garden prepares for the cold season. The memory of thejust gone glorioussummer still fluttersthrough the leaves that survived thestormsof the last days. Do they ever wonder if it was all worth?
