A Slight Wind Shakes The Seed-pods My

We Are Voyagers, Discoverers Of The Not-known, The Unrecorded; We Have No Map; Possibly We Will Reach Haven, Heaven.

Could Beauty Be Beaten Out, O Youth The Cities Have Sent To Strike At Each Other's Strength, It Is You Who Have Kept Her Alight.

Why Wait For Death To Mow? Why Wait For Death To Sow Us In The Ground?

Every Concrete Object Has Abstract Value, Is Timeless In The Dream Parallel.

Until It Seems The Whole City Will Be Covered With Gold Pollen Shaken From The Bell-towers, Lilies Plundered With The Weight Of Massive Bees . . .