It Is No Madness To Say You

I Knew The Poor, I Knew The Hideous Death They Die, When Famine Lays Its Bleak Hand On The Door; I Knew The Rich, Sated With Merriment, Who Yet Are Sad.

The Race May Or May Not Be To The Swift, But Tell Me, Is It Likely That The Fight Will Be Entrusted To The Dead?

...if You Do Not Even Understand What Words Say, How Can You Expect To Pass Judgement On What Words Conceal?

Love That I Bear Within My Breast How Is My Armour Melted How My Heart

Lovers May Come And Go, There Was The Memory Of Blood, The Low Call.