The wheel of Time wrote the first half of the poetry of mass destruction on the black board of the ashes of a funeral ground by dint of a pair of pens of nuclear bombs.
In the city a funeral is just an interruption of traffic; in the country it is a form of entertainment.
No funeral gloom, my dears, when I am gone,
corpse-gazing, tears, black raiment, graveyard grimness.
Think of me as withdrawn into the dimness,
yours still, you mine.
Remember all the best of our past moments,
and forget the rest;
and so to where I wait, come gently on.
Gothic script seemed to warp every letter that passed through the door of the funeral parlour, as if death were a German village.
