Our works in stone in paint in print
are spared
Some of them for a few decades
or a millenium or two
But everything must finally fall in war
or wear away into the ultimate and universal ash
The triumphs and the frauds
the treasures the fakes
A fact of life: we're going to die
'Be of good hearts'
cry the dead artists out of the living past
Our songs will all be silenced
But what of it?
Go on singing
Orson Welles //
Black Era - Then