On The Day The World

All Of Us Yearn For The Highest Wisdom, But We Have To Rely On Ourselves In The End.

Under Various Names, I Have Praised Only You, Rivers! You Are Milk And Honey And Love And Death And Dance. From A Spring In Hidden Grottoes, Seeping From Mossy Rocks, Where A Goddess Pours Live Water From A Pitcher, At Clear Streams In The Meadow, Where Rills Murmur Underground, Your Race And My Race Begin, And Amazement, And Quick Passage.

It's True That What Is Morbid Is Highly Valued Today, And So You May Think That I Am Only Joking Or That I've Devised Just One More Means Of Praising Art With The Help Of Irony.

You Who Think Of Us: They Lived Only In Delusion... Know That We The People Of The Book, Will Never Die!

What Is Poetry Which Does Not Save Nations Or People?