When We Walk Towards The Sun Of

If A Woman Shows Too Often The Medusa's Head, She Must Not Be Astonished If Her Lover Is Turned Into Stone.

The Air Is Full Of Farewells To The Dying. And Mournings For The Dead.

The Story, From Beginning To End, I Found Again In A Heart Of A Friend.

Maiden, That Read'st This Simple Rhyme, Enjoy Thy Youth, It Will Not Stay; Enjoy The Fragrance Of Thy Prime, For Oh, It Is Not Always May!

The Country Is Not Priest-ridded, But Press-ridden.