Uncorseted, her friendly bust Gives promise of pneumatic bliss.

So I find words I never thought to speak In streets I never thought I should revisit When I left my body on a distant shore.

I would meet you upon this honestly. I that was near your heart was removed therefrom To lose beauty in terror, terror in inquisition. I have lost my passion: why should I need to keep it Since what is kept must be adulterated? I have lost my sight, smell, hearing, taste and touch: How should I use them for your closer contact?

Think not forever of yourselves, O Chiefs, nor of your own generation. Think of continuing generations of our families, think of our grandchildren and of those yet unborn, whose faces are coming from beneath the ground.

The old should be explorers, be curious, risk transgression, explore oldness itself.

The hint half guessed, the gift half understood, is incarnation. Here the impossible union of spheres of existence is actual. Here the past and future are conquered and reconciled.

All dash to and fro in motor cars. Familiar with the roads and settled nowhere.