Are you afraid, Mr. Trump? For sometimes I feel it in you, the fear of losing oneself, and constantly seeking to fill up the void with all the glitters, like sickened eyes glitter when a fever ravages the mind.
Let me be that tree, so that the scent of pine will remind the world that someone must have meant it. I will be a singing sentinel, and that which breathes life into death. The raven has no part with the pine, nor the blackthorn with the dove.