The Death Of A Man Is Like

Not That I Want To Be A God Or A Hero. Just To Change Into A Tree, Grow For Ages, Not Hurt Anyone.

Grow Your Tree Of Falsehood From A Small Grain Of Truth.

All Was Taken Away From You: White Dresses, Wings, Even Existence. Yet I Believe You, Messengers. There, Where The World Is Turned Inside Out, A Heavy Fabric Embroidered With Stars And Beasts, You Stroll, Inspecting The Trustworthy Seams.

Vulgarized Knowledge Characteristically Gives Birth To A Feeling That Everything Is Understandable And Explained. It Is Like A System Of Bridges Built Over Chasms. One Can Travel Boldly Ahead Over These Bridges, Ignoring The Chasms. It Is Forbidden To Look Down Into Them; But That, Alas, Does Not Alter The Fact That They Exist.

The Death Of A Man Is Like The Fall Of A Mighty Nation That Had Valiant Armies, Captains, And Prophets, And Wealthy Ports And Ships All Over The Seas.