For Death Is Life. It Is Only

The Moon Slid Inexorably Into Its Zenith, The Shadows Shrivelling To The Feet Of All That Cast Them, And As Rantel Approached The Hollow At The Hem Of The Twisted Woods He Was Treading In A Pool Of His Own Midnight.

Years On End, And Swords On End - Where Will It End, If Our Ears Unbend - What Shall I Spend On A Wrinkled Friend In A Pair Of Tights Like A Bunch Of Lights?

It Was Not Certain What Significance The Ceremony Held... But The Formality Was No Less Sacred For It Being Unintelligible

He Saw In Happiness The Seeds Of Independence, And In Independence The Seeds Of Revolt.

Noon, Ripe As Thunder And Silent As Thought, Had Fled Unfingered.