How Wonderful To Be Alive, He Thought.

February. Get Ink, Shed Tears. Write Of It, Sob Your Heart Out, Sing, While Torrential Slush That Roars Burns In The Blackness Of The Spring. Go Hire A Buggy. For Six Grivnas, Race Through The Noice Of Bells And Wheels To Where The Ink And All You Grieving Are Muffled When The Rainshower Falls. To Where, Like Pears Burnt Black As Charcoal, A Myriad Rooks, Plucked From The Trees, Fall Down Into The Puddles, Hurl Dry Sadness Deep Into The Eyes. Below, The Wet Black Earth Shows Through, With Sudden Cries The Wind Is Pitted, The More Haphazard, The More True The Poetry That Sobs Its Heart Out.

Here They Are, All In One Place. Circle Back To Them When You Need Some Poetic Shine. It Is Not Revolutions And Upheavals That Clear The Road To Better Days, But Revelations, And Lavishness Of Someone's Soul Inspired, And Ablaze.

I Think That If The Beast Who Sleeps In Man Could Be Held Down By Threats Of Any Kind, Whether Of Jail Or Retribution, Then The Highest Emblem Of Humanity Would Be The Lion Tamer, Not The Prophet Who Sacrificed Himself.... What For Centuries Raised Man Above The Beast Is Not The Cudgel But The Irresistible Power Of Unarmed Truth.

He Realised, More Vividly Than Ever Before, That Art Had Two Constant, Two Unending Preoccupations: It Is Always Meditating Upon Death And It Is Always Thereby Creating Life.

He Comes As A Guest To The Feast Of Existence, And Knows That What Matters Is Not How Much He Inherits But How He Behaves At The Feast, And What People Remember And Love Him For.