And when great souls die, after a period peace blooms, slowly and always irregularly. Our senses, restored, never to be the same, whisper to us. They existed. They existed. We can be. Be and be better. For they existed.
Sunday, November 2, 2014
For Everything There Is A Season
For everything there is a season,
and a time for every matter under heaven.
A time to be born and a time to die.
Share to Twitter
Share to Facebook
Share to Pinterest
Post a Comment
Post Comments (Atom)