A requiem for all the broken umbrellas of New York City.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
On His Seventy-Fifth Birthday
I strove with none, for none was worth my strife, Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art. I warmed both hands before the fire of Life; It sinks, and I am ready to depart.
I strove with none, for none was worth my strife,
OMG, you know Leonard Cohen has a poem called about "his 57th cancer?" Well, not Cohen's but the doctor in his poem.
ReplyDeleteokay, I'll stop bugging ya now.