You Who Think Of Us:

A Weak Human Mercy Walks In The Corridors Of Hospitals And Is Like A Half-thawed Winter.

Even If That Is So, There Will Remain A Word Wakened By Lips That Perish, A Tireless Messenger Who Runs And Runs Through Interstellar Fields, Through The Revolving Galaxies, And Calls Out, Protests, Screams.

A Man Should Not Love The Moon. An Ax Should Not Lose Weight In His Hand. His Garden Should Smell Of Rotting Apples, And Grow A Fair Amount Of Nettles.

Yet Falling In Love Is Not The Same As Being Able To Love.

Irony Is The Glory Of Slaves.