What A Strange Machine Man Is! You

Cursed Be All Those On Land And Sea Who Eat Their Fill, Cursed Be All Those Who Starve Yet Raise No Hand In Protest, Cursed Be All The Bread, The Wine, The Meat Which Day By Day Descends Deep In The Entrails Of The Exploited Man And Turns Not Into Freedom's Cry, The Murderer's Ruthless Knife!

Whoever Climbed The Lord's Mountain Had To Possess Clean Hands And An Innocent Heart; Otherwise The Summit Would Kill Him. Today The Doorway Is Deserted. Soiled Hands And Sinful Hearts Are Able To Pass By Without Fear, For The Summit Kills No Longer.

Within This Arena, Which Grows More Stable Night After Day, Generations Work And Love And Hope And Vanish. New Generations Tread On The Corpses Of Their Fathers, Continue The Work Above The Abyss And Struggle To Tame The Dread Mystery. How? By Cultivating A Single Field, By Kissing A Woman, By Studying A Stone, An Animal, An Idea.

This, I Thought, Is How Great Visionaries And Poets See Everything- As If For The First Time. Each Morning They See A New World Before Their Eyes; They Do Not Really See It, They Create It.

What Is Truth? What Is Falsehood? Whatever Gives Wings To Men, Whatever Produces Great Works And Great Souls And Lifts Up A Man's Height Above The Earth - That's True. Whatever Clips Off Man's Wings - That's False.