There Are Certain Words Which Are Nearer

They Don’t Listen To Me, They Don’t Hear Me, They Don’t See Me.

Everywhere Across Whatever Sorrows Of Which Our Life Is Woven, Some Radiant Joy Will Gaily Flash Past.

The Current Generation Now Sees Everything Clearly, It Marvels At The Errors, It Laughs At The Folly Of Its Ancestors, Not Seeing That This Chronicle Is All Overscored By Divine Fire, That Every Letter Of It Cries Out, That From Everywhere The Piercing Finger Is Pointed At It, At This Current Generation; But The Current Generation Laughs And Presumptuously, Proudly Begins A Series Of New Errors, At Which Their Descendants Will Also Laugh Afterwards.

A Word Aptly Uttered Or Written Cannot Be Cut Away By An Axe.

The Lord Grant We May All Be Tillers Of The Soil.