Departure Beyond The Borders Of

All Mothers Are Mothers Of Great People, And It Is Not Their Fault That Life Later Disappoints Them.

February. Get Ink, Shed Tears. Write Of It, Sob Your Heart Out, Sing, While Torrential Slush That Roars Burns In The Blackness Of The Spring. Go Hire A Buggy. For Six Grivnas, Race Through The Noice Of Bells And Wheels To Where The Ink And All You Grieving Are Muffled When The Rainshower Falls. To Where, Like Pears Burnt Black As Charcoal, A Myriad Rooks, Plucked From The Trees, Fall Down Into The Puddles, Hurl Dry Sadness Deep Into The Eyes. Below, The Wet Black Earth Shows Through, With Sudden Cries The Wind Is Pitted, The More Haphazard, The More True The Poetry That Sobs Its Heart Out.

As For The Men In Power, They Are So Anxious To Establish The Myth Of Infallibility That They Do Their Utmost To Ignore Truth.

Oh, What A Love It Was, Utterly Free, Unique, Like Nothing Else On Earth! Their Thoughts Were Like Other People's Songs.

You And I, It's As Though We Have Been Taught To Kiss In Heaven And Sent Down To Earth Together, To See If We Know What We Were Taught.