Hands, Matches, An Ashtray. A Ritual Beautiful

A Loss, But Who Still Mourns The Breath Of One Woman, Or Laments One Wife? Though My Heart Never Can Forget, How, For One Look, She Gave Up Her Life.

Flowers, Cold From The Dew, And Autumn's Approaching Breath, I Pluck For The Warm, Luxuriant Braids, Which Haven't Faded Yet. In Their Nights, Fragrantly Resinous, Entwined With Delightful Mystery, They Will Breathe In Her Springlike Extraordinary Beauty. But In A Whirlwind Of Sound And Fire, From Her Shing Head They Will Flutter And Fall—and Before Her They Will Die, Faintly Fragrant Still. And, Impelled By Faithful Longing, My Obedient Gaze Will Feast Upon Them— With A Reverent Hand, Love Will Gather Their Rotting Remains.

But Here, In The Murk Of Conflagration, Where Scarcely A Friend Is Left To Know We, The Survivors, Do Not Flinch From Anything, Not From A Single Blow. Surely The Reckoning Will Be Made After The Passing Of This Cloud. We Are The People Without Tears, Straighter Than You ... More Proud.

Your Voice Is Wild And Simple. You Are Untranslatable Into Any One Tongue.

The Secret Of Secrets Is Inside Me Again.