We Fear Death, Yet We Long For

Pity The Nation Whose Statesman Is A Fox, Whose Philosopher Is A Juggler, And Whose Art Is The Art Of Patching And Mimicking. Pity The Nation That Welcomes Its New Ruler With Trumpetings, And Farewells Him With Hootings, Only To Welcome Another Ruler With Trumpetings Again. Pity The Nation Whose Sages Are Dumb With Years And Whose Strong Men Are Yet In The Cradle. Pity The Nation Divided Into Fragments, Each Fragment Deeming Itself A Nation.

And You Would Accept The Seasons Of Your Heart Just As You Have Always Accepted That Seasons Pass Over Your Fields And You Would Watch With Serenity Through The Winters Of Your Grief.

Where Are You Now, My Beloved? Do You Hear My Weeping From Beyond The Ocean? Do You Understand My Need? Do You Know The Greatness Of My Patience?

Be Like A Flower And Turn Your Face To The Sun.

Remembrance Is A Form Of Meeting.