a poem by: Ezra Pound
Sing we for love and idleness,
Naught else is worth the having.
Though I have been in many a land,
There is naught else in living.
And I would rather have my sweet,
Though rose-leaves die of grieving,
Than do high deeds in Hungary
To pass all men’s believing.
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We are passionate about the world we inhabit; Aware there are two sides to every story. Persistent in our pursuit of all points of view.
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