Solemn free, moving east of these, quiet are the days of your front door. Bitten the pillow and spoken the cry, ripping night wide, baby yous forgettin' the lay of the track, the way back to these days of your mishapen pride.

I'm a little bit socialist and a little bit rock n' roll.

O me! O life! of the questions of these recurring,
Of the endless trains of the faithless,
of cities fill'd with the foolish,
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I,
and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light,
of the objects mean,
of the struggle ever renew'd,
Of the poor results of all,
of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me,
Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me intertwined,
The question, O me! so sad, recurring-
What good amid these, O me, O life?

Answer.

That you are here-
that life exists and identity,
That the powerful play goes on,
and you may contribute a verse.
-Walt Whitman

Email- pinklunablossom@animail.net