Limbs of a dismembered poet.
The same (hated) man will be loved after he's dead. How quickly we forget.
It is the false shame of fools to try to conceal wounds that have not healed.
That man scorches with his brightness, who overpowers inferior capacities, yet he shall be revered when dead.
While we're talking, time will have meanly run on... pick today's fruits, not relying on the future in the slightest.
The work you are treating is one full of dangerous hazard, and you are treading over fires lurking beneath treacherous ashes.