Under Various Names, I Have Praised Only

Only A White-haired Old Man, Who Would Be A Prophet Yet Is Not A Prophet, For He's Much Too Busy, Repeats While He Binds His Tomatoes: No Other End Of The World Will There Be, No Other End Of The World Will There Be.

I Am Composed Of Contradictions, Which Is Why Poetry Is A Better Form For Me Than Philosophy

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.

At Every Sunrise I Renounce The Doubts Of Night And Greet The New Day Of A Most Precious Delusion.

Religion Used To Be The Opium Of The People. To Those Suffering Humiliation, Pain, Illness, And Serfdom, Religion Promised The Reward Of An After Life. But Now, We Are Witnessing A Transformation, A True Opium Of The People Is The Belief In Nothingness After Death, The Huge Solace, The Huge Comfort Of Thinking That For Our Betrayals, Our Greed, Our Cowardice, Our Murders, We Are Not Going To Be Judged.