Today they have returned. For all the paths of the night have been to mourn in my bed. So many, so many! I do not know what they live, I do not know what is dead. I cry myself to mourn all. The night baby crying as a black scarf. There are golden heads in the sun like ripe ... There are heads touched by shadow and mystery, a thorn-crowned head invisible, blush rose heads of dreaming heads bent to cushion abyss heads who would rest in heaven, some that fail to smell spring and many that go beyond the flowers of winter. All those heads ache and sores ... I hurt or dead.