Thy Words Are Like A Cloud Of

A Single Word Even May Be A Spark Of Inextinguishable Thought

For There Are Deeds Which Have No Form, Sufferings Which Have No Tongue.

I Cannot Endure The Horror, The Evil, Which Comes To Self In Solitude.

That Sweet Sleep Which Medicines All Pain.

Religion! But For Thee, Prolific Fiend, Who Peoplest Earth With Demons, Hell With Men, And Heaven With Slaves!