Poetry is finer and more philosophical than history; for poetry expresses the universal, and history only the particular.
And nevertheless... it ended. Childhood. Did it?...
The big wonderment – does it ever end? The endless desire for knowledge, warmth, love... does it ever end? I started counting the years, then I started counting the questions unanswered, then I started counting the empty nights and then I knew. One is forever’s child. Forever. Until forever decays into nothingness, and then it matters no more, anyway.