Gefieder / Feathers Lobpreis / Praises Tot / Dead Triumphiert / Triumphs Unsere / Our Vergangenheit / Past Vogel / Bird
A heart without dreams is like a bird without feathers.
Not in the clamor of the crowded street, not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, but in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.
Our birthdays are feathers in the broad wing of time.
We do not praise others, ordinarily, but in order to be praised ourselves.
It is our nation which is blind, and needs our prayers.
For we are born in other's pain, and perish in our own.
Our pasta primavera was born when I promised fresh pasta with tomatoes and basil to critic Craig Claiborne, but we had no tomatoes.
The eyes of others our prisons; their thoughts our cages.
We, who are the living, possess the past. Tomorrow is for our martyrs.
