Words Were Her Plague And Words Were

The Things I Have Are Nameless, Old And True; They May Not Be Named; Few May Live And Know.

Music Sets Up Ladders, It Makes Us Invisible, It Sets Us Apart, It Lets Us Escape; But From The Visible There Is No Escape.

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?

The Greeks Have Snatched Up Their Spears. They Have Pointed The Helms Of Their Ships Toward The Bulwarks Of Troy.

Lift Up Our Eyes To You? No, God, We Stare And Stare, Upon A Nearer Thing That Greets Us Here, Death, Violent And Near.