The old tree, tall against the sky – It’s still there, black, gnarled and lonely. The small laughing children I knew – Are somewhere, older, changed. You and me. facing tomorrow and memory. Where are we? As old April, an
A life, lives, many lives – millions struggle. Liars to the left and right of them, in front of them and in back of them, beneath and on top. Everyone dismayed; like those before them none can make a reply.
Last night I dreamed but not of Manderlay. It was instead of the Oak Ridge Cemetery, in Springfield where death evokes life. The moon bathed everything with its silvery beams making it easy to find my way through row upon