How Distant I Am From People When

You, The Strong, Have I Loved, Though The Marks Of Your Iron Hoofs Are Yet Upon My Flesh.

And Forget Not That The Earth Delights To Feel Your Bare Feet And The Winds Long To Play With Your Hair.

And Let The Winds Of The Heavens Dance Between You.

Happiness Is A Vine That Takes Root And Grows Within The Heart, Never Outside It.

Pity The Nation Whose Statesman Is A Fox, Whose Philosopher Is A Juggler, And Whose Art Is The Art Of Patching And Mimicking. Pity The Nation That Welcomes Its New Ruler With Trumpetings, And Farewells Him With Hootings, Only To Welcome Another Ruler With Trumpetings Again. Pity The Nation Whose Sages Are Dumb With Years And Whose Strong Men Are Yet In The Cradle. Pity The Nation Divided Into Fragments, Each Fragment Deeming Itself A Nation.