The Only Power That Has Any Real

I Know Now That When The Loving, Honest Moment Comes It Should Be Seized, And Spoken, Because It May Never Come Again. And Unvoiced, Unmoving, Unlived In The Things We Declare Form Heart To Heart, Those True And Real Feelings Wither And Crumble In The Remembering Hand That Tries Too Late To Reach For Them.

That's How They Manage To Live Together, A Billion Of Them, In Reasonable Peace. They Are Not Perfect, Of Course. They Know How To Fight And Lie And Cheat Each Other, And All The Things That All Of Us Do. But More Than Any Other People In The World, The Indians Know How To Love One Another.

Slowly, Desolately, The Fist Of What We'd Done Unclenched The Clawed Palm Of What We'd Become.

Every Life, Every Love, Every Action And Feeling And Thought Has Its Reason And Significance: Its Beginning, And The Part It Plays In The End. Sometimes, We Do See.

They Claim A Hidden Corner Of Our Hearts, All Those Moments That Stay With Us Unscreamed. That's Where Loves, Like Elephants, Drag Themselves To Die. It's The Place Where Pride Allows Itself To Cry.