With Our Own Feathers, Not By Others'

The Evils Of Mortals Are Manifold; Nowhere Is Trouble Of The Same Wing Seen.

Everyone's Quick To Blame The Alien.

For The Poison Of Hatred Seated Near The Heart Doubles The Burden For The One Who Suffers The Disease; He Is Burdened With His Own Sorrow, And Groans On Seeing Another's Happiness.

The Anvil Of Justice Is Planted Firm, And Fate Who Makes The Sword Does The Forging In Advance.

In Visions Of The Night, Like Dropping Rain, Descend The Many Memories Of Pain.