Irony Is The Glory Of Slaves.

I Have No Wisdom, No Skills, And No Faith But I Received Strength, It Tears The World Apart. I Shall Break, A Heavy Wave, Against Its Shores And A Young Wave Will Cover My Trace.

Two Attributes Of A Poet, Avidity Of The Eye And The Desire To Describe That Which He Sees.

Consolation Calm Down. Both Your Sins And Your Good Deeds Will Be Lost In Oblivion.

Even If That Is So, There Will Remain A Word Wakened By Lips That Perish, A Tireless Messenger Who Runs And Runs Through Interstellar Fields, Through The Revolving Galaxies, And Calls Out, Protests, Screams.

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.