The Word Dropped Like A Stone On

Let Whoever Wants To, Relax In The South, And Bask In The Garden Of Paradise. Here Is The Essence Of North—and It's Autumn I've Chosen As This Year's Friend.

That Was When The Ones Who Smiled Were The Dead, Glad To Be At Rest.

I Myself, From The Very Beginning, Seemed To Myself Like Someone's Dream Or Delirium Or A Reflection In Someone Else's Mirror, Without Flesh, Without Meaning, Without A Name. Already I Knew The List Of Crimes That I Was Destined To Commit.

We Thought: We're Poor, We Have Nothing, But When We Started Losing One After The Other So Each Day Became Remembrance Day, We Started Composing Poems About God's Great Generosity And Our Former Riches.

As The Future Ripens In The Past, So The Past Rots In The Future -- A Terrible Festival Of Dead Leaves.