It's strange that words are so inadequate. Yet, like the asthmatic struggling for breath, so the lover must struggle for words.

So the lover must struggle for words.

It's strange that words are so inadequate. Yet, like the asthmatic struggling for breath, so the lover must struggle for words.

There's no vocabulary For love within a family, love that's lived in But not looked at, love within the light of which All else is seen, the love within which All other love finds speech. This love is silent.

For last year's words belong to last year's language, And next year's words await another voice. And to make an end is to make a beginning.

For last year's words belong to last year's language
And next year's words await another voice.