It Is Not "forgive And Forget" As

There Is A Lovely Road That Runs From Ixopo Into The Hills. These Hills Are Grass-covered And Rolling, And They Are Lovely Beyond Any Singing Of It.

There Is Not Much Talking Now. A Silence Falls Upon Them All. This Is No Time To Talk Of Hedges And Fields, Or The Beauties Of Any Country. Sadness And Fear And Hate, How They Well Up In The Heart And Mind, Whenever One Opens Pages Of These Messengers Of Doom. Cry For The Broken Tribe, For The Law And The Custom That Is Gone. Aye, And Cry Aloud For The Man Who Is Dead, For The Woman And Children Bereaved. Cry, The Beloved Country, These Things Are Not Yet At An End. The Sun Pours Down On The Earth, On The Lovely Land That Man Cannot Enjoy. He Knows Only The Fear Of His Heart.

Life Has Not Taught Me To Expect Nothing, But She Has Taught Me Not To Expect Success To Be The Inevitable Result Of My Endeavors. She Taught Me To Seek Sustenance From The Endeavor Itself, But To Leave The Result To God.

In The Deserted Harbour There Is Yet Water That Laps Against The Quays. In The Dark And Silent Forest, There Is A Leaf That Falls. Behind The Polished Panelling The White Ant Eats Away The Wood. Nothing Is Ever Quiet, Except For Fools

But The One Thing That Has Power Completely Is Love, Because When A Man Loves, He Seeks No Power, And Therefore He Has Power.