Oh Heavy Change. The World

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.

When The Sun Shouts And People Abound One Thinks There Were The Ages Of Stone And The Age Of Bronze And The Iron Age; Iron The Unstable Metal; Steel Made Of Iron, Unstable As His Mother; The Tow-ered-up Cities Will Be Stains Of Rust On Mounds Of Plaster. Roots Will Not Pierce The Heaps For A Time, Kind Rains Will Cure Them, Then Nothing Will Remain Of The Iron Age And All These People But A Thigh-bone Or So, A Poem Stuck In The World's Thought, Splinters Of Glass In The Rubbish Dumps, A Concrete Dam Far Off In The Mountain.

The Love Of Freedom Has Been The Quality Of Western Man.

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.

[k]now That However Ugly The Parts Appear The Whole Remains Beautiful. A Severed Hand Is An Ugly Thing, And Man Dissevered From The Earth And Stars And His History... For Contemplation Or In Fact... Often Appears Atrociously Ugly. Integrity Is Wholeness, The Greatest Beauty Is Organic Wholeness, The Wholeness Of Life And Things, The Divine Beauty Of The Universe.