Under Every Stone Lurks A

Weak Mortals, Chained To The Earth, Creatures Of Clay As Frail As The Foliage Of The Woods, You Unfortunate Race, Whose Life Is But Darkness, As Unreal As A Shadow, The Illusion Of A Dream.

Have You Ever, Looking Up, Seen A Cloud Like To A Centaur, A Part, Or A Wolf, Or A Bull?

The Love Of Wine Is A Good Man's Failing.

You Can't Have Anything Else To Say: You've Poured Out Every Drop Of What You Know.

Full Of Wiles, Full Of Guile, At All Times, In All Ways, Are The Children Of Men.