Many have died; you also will die. The drum of death is being beaten. The world has fallen in love with a dream. Only sayings of the wise will remain.
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The journey through another world, beyond bad dreamsbeyond the memories of a murdered generation, cartographed in captivity by bare survivorsmakes sacristans of us all. The old ones go our bail, we oblate preachers of our tribes. Be careful, they say, don't hock the beads of kinship agonies; the moire-effect of unfamiliar hymnsupon our own, a change in pitch or shrillness of the voicetransforms the ways of song to words of poetry or proseand makes distinctionsno one recognizes. Surrounded and absorbed, we tread like Etruscanson the edge of useless law; we prayto the giver of prayer, we give the cane whistlein ceremony, we swing the heavy silver chainof incense burners. Migration makes new citizens of Rome.
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The Prophets Isaiah and Ezekiel dined with me, and I asked them how they dared so roundly to assert, that God spoke to them; and whether they did not think at the time, that they would be misunderstood
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We are here in a wood of little beeches: And the leaves are like black lace Against a sky of nacre. One bough of clear promise Across the moon. It is in this wise that God speaketh unto me. He layeth hands of healing upon my flesh, Stilling it in an eternal peace, Until my soul reaches out myriad and infinite hands Toward him, And is eased of its hunger. And I know that this passes: This implacable fury and torment of men, As a thing insensate and vain: And the stillness hath said unto me, Over the tumult of sounds and shaken flame, Out of the terrible beauty of wrath, I alone am eternal. One bough of clear promise Across the moon
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Never forget: we walk on hell, gazing at flowers.
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Dream Song: The heavens Go with me.
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It is a pity that there are no big creatures to prey on humanity. If there were enough dragons and rocs, perhaps mankind would turn its might against them. Unfortunately man is preyed upon by microbes, which are too small to be appreciated.
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A pity it is evening, yetI do love the water of this springseeing how clear it is, how clean; rays of sunset gleam on it, lighting up its ripples, making itone with those who travelthe roads; I turn and facethe moon; sing it a song, thenlisten to the sound of the windamongst the pines.
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Be still: There is no longer any need of comment. It was a lucky windThat blew away his halo with his cares,A lucky sea that drowned his reputation.
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When the path ignites a soul, there's no remaining in place. The foot touches ground, but not for long.
The plants and flowersI raised about my hutI now surrenderTo the willOf the wind
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Song on Applying War Paint: At the center of the earth I stand, Behold me! At the wind center I stand, Behold me! A root of medicine Therefore I stand, At the wind center I stand.
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