Be Young Forever, Seasons Of

Leaves Glowing In The Sun, Zealous Hum Of Bumblebees, From Afar, From Somewhere Beyond The River, Echoes Of Lingering Voices And The Unhurried Sounds Of A Hammer Gave Joy Not Only To Me. Before The Five Senses Were Opened, And Earlier Than Any Beginning They Waited, Ready, For All Those Who Would Call Themselves Mortals, So That They Might Praise, As I Do, Life, That Is, Happiness.

And If There Is No Lining To The World? If A Thrush On A Branch Is Not A Sign, But Just A Thrush On The Branch? If Night And Day Make No Sense Following Each Other?

If I Am All Mankind, Are They Themselves Without Me?

Our Memory Is Childish And It Saves Only What We Need.

For A Country Without A Past Is Nothing, A Word That, Hardly Spoken, Loses Its Meaning, A Perishable Wall Destroyed By Flame, An Echo Of Animal Emotions.