From the ephemeral poet comes the trivial story of his youth, soon to be lost like footsteps in the sands of time. I speak of the inconsequential victories and passionate love; memories, only to lie with me in my grave. For what is a revolution if not circling the same point? Change IS the constant, says the ephemeral poet, and the reigns will change hands with my last breath. But if I live,it has to be in the fighting spirit of a dim light against the vast darkness of ignorance. I leave behind the words, each containing a laugh, a tear, some sorrow, some glee, pieces of a life lived full, a torrent of ebullient energy. It is the journey, says the ephemeral, poet not the destination which makes it worthwhile. Live and live and live, he says, so when the time comes, your heart is full, your hands are empty and your lips have a smile...