You Can Muffle The Drum, And You

And Is Not The Lute That Soothes Your Spirit The Very Wood That Was Hollowed With Knives?

Happiness Is A Myth We Seek, If Manifested Surely Irks; Like River Speeding To The Plain, On Its Arrival Slows And Murks. For Man Is Happy Only In His Aspiration To The Heights; When He Attains His Goal, He Cools And Longs For Other Distant Flights.

Let Ignorance Reproduce Itself Until It Is Weary Of Its Own Offspring.

Because The Soul Is Like A Flower That Folds Its Petals When Dark Comes, And Breathes Not Its Fragrance Into The Phantoms Of The Night.

Yea, Death And Prison We Mete Out To Small Offenders Of The Laws, While Honor, Wealth, And Full Respect On Greater Pirates We Bestow. To Steal A Flower We Call Mean. To Rob A Field Is Chivalry; Who Kills The Body He Must Die, Who Kills The Spirit He Goes Free.