We humans do not understand compassion. In each moment of our lives, we betray it. Aye, we know of its worth, yet in knowing we then attach to it a value, we guard the giving of it, believing it must be earned, T'lan Imass. Compassion is priceless in the truest sense of the wold. It must be given freely. In abundance.
Even still, it wasn't over. For if a battle could be won so easily, men would soon forget its horrors and clamor for it all the more. War would come more than once or twice a generation. Easy victories would produce men who were struck dumb with their own unbelievably improbable successes. Such men wold begin to think they had devised not the superior tactic, but rather the supreme tactic at winning
I WON'T BOW DOWN TO THE GOD OF THIS WOLD FALSE PROPHETS WHO SELL THEIR SOULS FOR SILVER AND GOLD I WON'T REST UNTIL YOUR IDOLS FALL TO THE GROUND JUST TRY AND STOP ME JUST TRY AND STOP ME NOW SO TAKE YOUR BEST SHOT SHOW ME WHAT YOU GOT SO TAKE YOUR BEST SHOT IS THAT ALL YOU GOT I'M NOT GOING TO BE AFRAID TONIGHT, I'M NOT GONNA RUN AWAY I'M NOT GOING TO BE AFRAID TONIGHT I'M READY SHOW ME WHAT YOU GOT YOU THINK YOU'RE SO TOUGH TAKE YOUR BEST SHOT IS THAT ALL YOU GOT COME ON, COME ON IF GOD IS FOR US WHO CAN BE AGAINST US
Blessed By A Broken Heart
I have always lusted after a sepia-toned library with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a sliding ladder. I fantasie about Tennessee Williams' types of evenings involving rum on the porch. I long for balmy slightly sleepless nights with nothing but the whoosh of a wooden ceiling fan to keep me company, and the joy of finding the cool spot on the bed. I would while away my days jotting down my thoughts in a battered leather-bound notebook, which would have been given to me by some former lover. My scribbling would form the basis of a best-selling novel, which they wold discuss in tiny independent bookshops on quaint little streets in forgotten corners of terribly romantic European cities. In other words, I fantasize about being credible, in that artistic, slightly bohemian way that only girls with very long legs can get away with.
October O love, turn from the changing sea and gaze, Down these grey slopes, upon the year grown old, A-dying 'mid the autumn-scented haze That hangeth o'er the hollow in the wold, Where the wind-bitten ancient elms infold Grey church, long barn, orchard, and red-roofed stead, Wrought in dead days for men a long while dead. Come down, O love; may not our hands still meet, Since still we live today, forgetting June, Forgetting May, deeming October sweet? - - Oh, hearken! hearken! through the afternoon The grey tower sings a strange old tinkling tune! Sweet, sweet, and sad, the toiling year's last breath, To satiate of life, to strive with death. And we too -will it not be soft and kind, That rest from life, from patience, and from pain, That rest from bliss we know not when we find, That rest from love which ne'er the end can gain? - Hark! how the tune swells, that erewhile did wane! Look up, love! -Ah! cling close, and never move! How can I have enough of life and love?