Every Sovereign Country Has The Right To

As It Somehow Always Manages Before The Winter Solstice, But Never After, The Early Darkness Was Cheerful And Promising, Even For Those Who Had Nothing.

Their Powerlessness, Innocence, And Imagination Fused To Enable Them To Turn Time Inside Out, Travel On The Wind, And Enter The Souls Of Animals.

Marxists Are People Whose Insides Are Torn Up Day After Day Because They Want To Rule The World And No One Will Even Publish Their Letter To The Editor.

We Launch Our Souls From The Cannons Of Art And Discipline, And On Any One Night, Hovering Over The Chimney Tops Of Europe, Halfway To The Stars, There Are Armies Of Brightly Spinning Spirits That Have Risen Like Fireworks, Tethered To The Souls Of Those Men And Women Who, By Reflection, Mortification, And Devotion, Effortlessly Outdazzle Kings.

Perhaps Passing Through The Gates Of Death Is Like Passing Quietly Through The Gate In A Pasture Fence. On The Other Side, You Keep Walking, Without The Need To Look Back. No Shock, No Drama, Just The Lifting Of A Plank Or Two In A Simple Wooden Gate In A Clearing. Neither Pain, Nor Floods Of Light, Nor Great Voices, But Just The Silent Crossing Of A Meadow.