Irony Is The Glory Of Slaves.

There Was A Time When Only Wise Books Were Read Helping Us To Bear Our Pain And Misery. This, After All, Is Not Quite The Same As Leafing Through A Thousand Works Fresh From Psychiatric Clinics. And Yet The World Is Different From What It Seems To Be And We Are Other Than How We See Ourselves In Our Ravings.

Do Not Feel Safe. The Poet Remembers. You Can Kill One, But Another Is Born. The Words Are Written Down, The Deed, The Date.

Do You Know How It Is When One Wakes At Night Suddenly And Asks, Listening To The Pounding Heart: What More Do You Want, Insatiable?

They Used To Pour Millet On Graves Or Poppy Seeds To Feed The Dead Who Would Come Disguised As Birds. I Put This Book Here For You, Who Once Lived So That You Should Visit Us No More.

The Soul Exceeds Its Circumstances.