The Death Of A Man Is Like

If I Am All Mankind, Are They Themselves Without Me?

Only A White-haired Old Man, Who Would Be A Prophet Yet Is Not A Prophet, For He's Much Too Busy, Repeats While He Binds His Tomatoes: No Other End Of The World Will There Be, No Other End Of The World Will There Be.

The Child Who Dwells Inside Us Trusts That There Are Wise Men Somewhere Who Know The Truth.

It Is Sweet To Think I Was A Companion In An Expedition That Never Ends

Even If That Is So, There Will Remain A Word Wakened By Lips That Perish, A Tireless Messenger Who Runs And Runs Through Interstellar Fields, Through The Revolving Galaxies, And Calls Out, Protests, Screams.