Life is not lost by dying; life is lost minute by minute, day by dragging day, in all the thousand small uncaring ways. - Stephen Vincent Benét

Life is not lost by dying. Life is lost minute by minute, day by dragging day...

Life was a storm to wander through. I took the wrong way. Good and well, At least my feet sought out not Hell!

For the women who mourn their dead in the secret night, For the children taught to keep quiet, the old children, The children spat-on at school. For the wrecked laboratory, The gutted house, the dunged picture, the pissed-in well The naked corpse of Knowledge flung in the square And no man lifting a hand and no man speaking.

All night long like a moving stain,
(The trees are breaking, my son,)
The black ghost wanders his house of pain.
There is blood where his hand has lain.

It is wrong he should wear a chain.
(The sky is falling, my son.)