The works Ballad of the Lost Map are born of the spiritual turmoil experienced by the individuals caught in the midst of a turbulent world. These anguished voices come from the ditches and hovels of the shanty towns; the mists and shadows of my memory; the cut and thrust of politics; the confusion of continual travel; the faith of weary humanity; and the compassion of natural conscience. It is right that a poet should want to record not only beautiful things but also the sad voices of mankind and the wounds continually inflicted on the world. If that were not so, poetry would be elegant lamp with no inner flame. Or worse, a splendid galleon, drifting at the mercy of the passing tides.