After Such Knowledge, What Forgiveness?

I Grow Old … I Grow Old … I Shall Wear The Bottoms Of My Trousers Rolled.

One Starts An Action Simply Because One Must Do Something.

There Are Flood And Drought Over The Eyes And In The Mouth, Dead Water And Dead Sand Contending For The Upper Hand. The Parched Eviscerate Soil Gapes At The Vanity Of Toil, Laughs Without Mirth. This Is The Death Of The Earth.

The Soul Is So Far From Being A Monad That We Have Not Only To Interpret Other Souls To Ourself But To Interpret Ourself To Ourself.

At The Still Point Of The Turning World. Neither Flesh Nor Fleshless; Neither From Nor Towards; At The Still Point, There The Dance Is.