We are voyagers, discoverers of the not-known, the unrecorded; we have no map; possibly we will reach haven, heaven.
No poetic phantasy but a biological reality, a fact: I am an entity like bird, insect, plant or sea-plant cell; I live; I am alive.
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?
For this beauty, beauty without strength, chokes out life.
I smiled, I waited, I was circumspect; O never, never, never write that I missed life or loving.
I knew the poor, I knew the hideous death they die, when famine lays its bleak hand on the door; I knew the rich, sated with merriment, who yet are sad.
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