I Am Alone; All Drowns In The

The Whole Wide World Is A Cathedral; I Stand Inside, The Air Is Calm, And From Afar At Times There Reaches My Ear The Echo Of A Psalm.

They Don't Ask Much Of You. They Only Want You To Hate The Things You Love And To Love The Things You Despise.

Yet The Order Of The Acts Is Planned And The End Of The Way Inescapable. I Am Alone; All Drowns In The Pharisees' Hypocrisy.

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.

But Who Are We, Where Do We Come From When All Those Years Nothing But Idle Talk Is Left And We Are Nowhere In The World?" = Meeting =