A True Opium Of The People Is

For A Country Without A Past Is Nothing, A Word That, Hardly Spoken, Loses Its Meaning, A Perishable Wall Destroyed By Flame, An Echo Of Animal Emotions.

Be Young Forever, Seasons Of The Earth.

The Vineyard Country, Russet, Reddish, Carmine-brown In This Season. A Blue Outline Of Hills Above A Fertile Valley. It's Warm As Long As The Sun Does Not Set, In The Shade Cold Returns. A Strong Sauna And Then Swimming In A Pool Surrounded By Trees. Dark Redwoods, Transparent Pale-leved Birches. In Their Delicate Network, A Sliver Of The Moon. I Describe This For I Have Learned To Doubt Philosophy And The Visible World Is All That Remains.

I Knew That I Would Speak In The Language Of The Vanquished No More Durable Than Old Customs, Family Rituals, Christmas Tinsel, And Once A Year The Hilarity Of Carols.

You See How I Try To Reach With Words What Matters Most And How I Fail.