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| e. e. cummings |
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| love´s function is to fabricate unknownness (known being wishless; but love, all of wishing) though life´s lived wrongsideout, sameness chokes oneness truth is confused with fact, fish boast of fishing and men are caught by worms (love may not care if time totters, light droops, all measures bend nor marvel is a thought should weigh a star - dreads dying least; and less, that death should end) how lucky lovers are (whose selves abide under whatever shall discovered be) whose ignorant each breathing dares to hide more than most fabulous wisdom fears to see (who laugh and cry) who dream, create and kill while the whole moves, and every part stands still |
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