Centuries past, history a new
repetition of life is now at a stage
when there are no compasses, no maps,
only roads upon which they eagerly
ventured out farther, farther than what
was thought to be, reaching higher
higher than what should have been

And in jest, thought to be as one
with the infinite universe, they
were strikingly reminded of their
mortality with disease and famine
a reproach whose origins at the
time were unknown, now made clear
with generations carrying the mark

So now, here we are once again
to what seems like a new dawn
with living thoughts still unmasked
positive reactions yet to be acquired
dressed in the dew, of unabashed youth

We now turn again, and again seeking
Chapter Twenty-One, only to find
moving terms of pages turned