To my surprise I found them, all three, in the garden of those died, hands swinging linked, and couldn't make my mind up, should I be in agony and howl out ? Stand there stunned ? Disdain the bare decease of sentience ? Or was I now extinct myself ? Within the sheet of paper's privacy : The cloister opened and re-entered by the stairs of rhyme; the doorway unlocked with a pen - and in the last resort, its perfect hiding place behind the gates of fire; the secrecy of words at various moments salamanders and chameleons; in such a sanctuary the bullying voice of Death is no more disconcerting than the smoking birds of nightfall : the suggestion that the day may not be given for your ordinary pleasure, or allowed the breadth of an important project; and that those whose dying would most affect them, rarely warn the living of their hasty parting, and they cannot answer the inquiries afterwards of any emptiness they leave behind - All, softly, without anguish or foreboding - all compose themselves within the guiding freedom of the lines at times surprising, but in every figment, blithe or shameless, innocent inside that sheltered place. And not excluding even Death, there need be nothing nameless.
