Let Whoever Wants To, Relax In The

Natural Thunder Heralds The Wetness Of Fresh Water High Clouds To Quench The Thirst Of Fields Gone Dry And Parched, A Messenger Of Blessed Rain, But This Was As Dry As Hell Must Be. My Distraught Perception Refused To Believe It, Because Of The Insane Suddenness With Which It Sounded, Swelled And Hit, And How Casually It Came To Murder My Child.

Courage: Great Russian Word, Fit For The Songs Of Our Children's Children, Pure On Their Tongues, And Free.

As The Future Ripens In The Past, So The Past Rots In The Future -- A Terrible Festival Of Dead Leaves.

Song Falls Silent, Music Is Dumb, But The Air Burns With Their Fragrance, And White Winter, On Its Knees, Observes Everything With Reverent Attention.

Who Will Grieve For This Woman? Does She Not Seem Too Insignificant For Our Concern? Yet In My Heart I Never Will Deny Her, Who Suffered Death Because She Chose To Turn.