An age is the reversal of an age: When strangers murdered Emmet, Fitzgerald, Tone, We lived like men that watch a painted stage. What matter for the scene, the scene once gone: It had not touched our lives.
A living man is blind and drinks his drop. What matter if the ditches are impure? What matter if I live it all once more?
... What matter, so there is but fire In you, in me?