My heart is sore when I hear his name. There is a small tea house in the personnel building where his wife does. His scent filled the place he often sought. The day that ends this world's picnic. I remember the clear picture of a poet who said he was going back to heaven and had fun. A poet who has lived with pleasure, and who has been wandering the streets with vagrants. Because of the insurgency of our time, he was tortured with electricity and went to a mental institution several times. He