Autumn gives asylum to my cold, still thoughts. Cool enough to contemplate outdoors, Summer’s end bears the fruit of joy.
For every life there is an end, And no doubt also a final autumn. But beyond the corporeal, facts live on.
For the world be not of things, but facts. Our presence is such, but so are our words, Our ideas, our laughs, and our cries.
Our models are what define us, our pictures, These march on long after the icy grip Takes us prisoner. We are forever bound to our world.
To conjure a world like none ever before, and To captivate the mighty, complacent champions of a generation, Vienna’s wunderkind never ceased to surprise.
He lives today, in everyone who dares Question the words which found them. Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent.