The Very Essence Of Literature Is The

When A Human Kills An Animal For Food, He Is Neglecting His Own Hunger For Justice. Man Prays For Mercy, But Is Unwilling To Extend It To Others. Why Should Man Then Expect Mercy From God? It's Unfair To Expect Something That You Are Not Willing To Give.

Heaven And Earth Conspire That Everything Which Has Been, Be Rooted And Reduced To Dust. Only The Dreamers, Who Dream While Awake, Call Back The Shadows Of The Past And Braid Nets From The Unspun Thread.

They Still Believe In God, The Family, Angels, Witches, Goblins, Logic, Clarity, Punctuation, And Other Obsolete Stuff.

While The Poet Entertains He Continues To Search For Eternal Truths, For The Essence Of Being. In His Own Fashion He Tries To Solve The Riddle Of Time And Change, To Find An Answer To Suffering, To Reveal Love In The Very Abyss Of Cruelty And Injustice. Strange As These Words May Sound I Often Play With The Idea That When All The Social Theories Collapse And Wars And Revolutions Leave Humanity In Utter Gloom, The Poet--whom Plato Banned From His Republic--may Rise Up To Save Us All.

What Happened Was No Accident. Everything Was Preordained. True, The Will Was Free, But Heaven Also Made Its Ordinances.