But What Are Pity, Conscience, Or Fear

February. Get Ink, Shed Tears. Write Of It, Sob Your Heart Out, Sing, While Torrential Slush That Roars Burns In The Blackness Of The Spring. Go Hire A Buggy. For Six Grivnas, Race Through The Noice Of Bells And Wheels To Where The Ink And All You Grieving Are Muffled When The Rainshower Falls. To Where, Like Pears Burnt Black As Charcoal, A Myriad Rooks, Plucked From The Trees, Fall Down Into The Puddles, Hurl Dry Sadness Deep Into The Eyes. Below, The Wet Black Earth Shows Through, With Sudden Cries The Wind Is Pitted, The More Haphazard, The More True The Poetry That Sobs Its Heart Out.

Salvation Lies Not In The Faithfulness To Forms, But In The Liberation From Them.

To Be A Woman Is A Great Adventure; To Drive Men Mad Is A Heroic Thing.

No Single Man Makes History. History Cannot Be Seen Just As One Cannot See Grass Growing.

And Why Is It, Thought Lara, That My Fate Is To See Everything And Take It All So Much To Heart?