The Death Of A Man Is Like

The Living Owe It To Those Who No Longer Can Speak To Tell Their Story For Them.

And If There Is No Lining To The World? If A Thrush On A Branch Is Not A Sign, But Just A Thrush On The Branch? If Night And Day Make No Sense Following Each Other?

All Was Taken Away From You: White Dresses, Wings, Even Existence. Yet I Believe You, Messengers. There, Where The World Is Turned Inside Out, A Heavy Fabric Embroidered With Stars And Beasts, You Stroll, Inspecting The Trustworthy Seams.

Not That I Want To Be A God Or A Hero. Just To Change Into A Tree, Grow For Ages, Not Hurt Anyone.

We Have Become Indifferent To Content, And React, Not Even To Form, But To Technique, To Technical Efficiency Itself.