One moment in annihilation's waste One moment of the well of Life to taste The stars are setting and the caravan Starts from the dawn of nothing Oh, make haste! omar khayyam Hugh Garner Page Two Someday to write a play By frank mcquown One day on some far horizon where spirits meet going to and coming from this world, a newcomer about to be born unto the world encountered an archangel and a caravan of five gray-shrouded spirits, one leading a small, emaciated child by the hand. The five walked slowly, with heads bowed, and looked neither to the right nor to the left, nor smiled, nor spoke. "Why is it that these five have to plot on so slowly? Why are they not born up to heaven on thunderbolts as is customary?" asked the newcomer of the archangel. "These spirits ended their mortal lives before their allotted times and have been convicted of pessimism. Therefore, they must plod slowly along the paths of time to reach immortality," answered the archangel. "But, come, listen as each chants his own story." I First there came a statesman, leading a small Spanish boy by the hand: I was a statesman in search of lasting peace: I was with Woodrow Wilson at Versailles and At the signing of the armistice, when we thought We had made the 'world safe for democracy'. All my life I worked for peace: In college I led the students in revolt against war, And later, in diplomatic service for my country, I served as ambassador of good will. Then came totalitarianism with treaties forgotten: And Abyssinia, and China and rebellion in Spain And Czechoslovakia: Communism, Fascism and Nazi regime And dictators and regimentation and suppression of peace. And I was torn with despair and futile failure: To see mass murder, with justice and liberty destroyed, With God denounced and his creeds forgotten, And the armament race consigning millions to future death. And finally, I went to Barcelona to seek the surrender In the fading name of Peace of the Loyalist forces, Only to find the mangled bodies of many like this muchacho, Murdered by foreign-made bombing machines. And driven to mad frenzy by this last dreadful sight, I rushed madly toward the distant guns, Raining death and destruction on the innocent, And was blown to bits as were this child and Peace. ........AND TELL OE PEACE II Next came a young lady of college age: I loved the arts: music, literature, and painting, And the snowfields in winter, apple blossoms in summer, And the far horizons. But I forsook them for social education To keep from becoming narrow, And plunged into the life of white collars, gardenias, and silks, Parties, cosmetics, and mad fleeing from boredom. And at times I revolted, became sick of it all: . . . formals and Doublemintgum, blare of the brass and clash of the symbols and sliding and the swishing of the feet, with the giggles of the girls and the guffaws of the boys, cakes and tea and the clink of glasses in smoke filled rooms . . . But then I met a boy, Whom I thought was above the giddiness of the parties, Page Three