Well: The Day Is A Poem But

Does It Matter Whether You Hate Yourself? At Least Love Your Eyes That Can See, Your Mind That Can Hear The Music, The Thunder Of The Wings.

You Making Haste On Decay: Not Blameworthy; Life Is Good, Be It Stubbornly Long Or Suddenly A Mortal Splendor: Meteors Are Not Needed Less Than Mountains: Shine, Perishing Republic.

The Tides Are In Our Veins, We Still Mirror The Stars, Life Is Your Child, But There Is In Me Older And Harder Than Life And More Impartial, The Eye That Watched Before There Was An Ocean.

This Wild Swan Of A World Is No Hunter's Game.

Shiva... Is The Only Hunter That Will Ever Catch The Wild Swan; The Prey She Will Take Last Is The Wild White Swan Of The Beauty Of Things. Then She Will Be Alone, Pure Destruction, Achieved And Supreme, Empty Darkness Under The Death-tent Wings. She Will Build A Nest Of The Swan's Bones And Hatch A New Brood, Hang New Heavens With New Birds, All Be Renewed.