We Have No Choice But To Be

You Burned The City Of London In Our Houses And We Felt The Flames.

History, Like A Badly Constructed Concert Hall, Has Occasional Dead Spots Where The Music Can't Be Heard.

If The Poem Can Be Improved By The Author's Explanations, It Never Should Have Been Published.

Beauty Is That Medusa's Head Which Men Go Armed To Seek And Sever, And Dead Will Starve And Sting Forever.

To See The Earth As We Now See It, Small And Beautiful In That Eternal Silence Where It Floats, Is To See Ourselves As Riders On The Earth Together, Brothers On That Bright Loveliness In The Unending Night ~ Brothers Who See Now They Are Truly Brothers.