Everyone, To Those Weaker Than Themselves, Is

With Our Own Feathers, Not By Others' Hands, Are We Now Smitten.

No One Can Count The Terrors That The Earth Spawns, Catastrophic, Gruesome, And The Vast Arms Of The Sea Swarm With Brute Monsters Bent On Harm, And Everywhere Between The Sky And Ground Lights Bloom By Day In Flares And Sudden Bolts; And Birds And Beasts Alike Can Tell Of The Whirlwind's Whirling Wrath.

Old Men, What Are They? Fast Fading The Leaf, Three-footed They Walk, Yet Frail As A Child, As A Dream Set Afloat In The Daylight.

Let There Be Wealth Without Tears; Enough For The Wise Man Who Will Ask No Further.

Alas For The Affairs Of Men! When They Are Fortunate You Might Compare Them To A Shadow; And If They Are Unfortunate, A Wet Sponge With One Dash Wipes The Picture Away.