Mrs. Ashby, whose heart was born before my ears, whose blood trickled slowly over her heartstrings as she plucked feverishly into the night. Her sweet songs gave rise to old sunsets that caused the beaches to be glazed over with an unreal warmth.

The harp she played many years before my birth echoes loudly towards the dew-covered hills, pleasantly laced with God's tears.

These songs and poems that stream from the ancients, walk hand in hand with the hungered youth of today. These treasures speak of a passion that ceases to greet the morning star in these times. It forces the soul into a ceaseless lamenting of yesterday. Evenso, yesterday was but mere moments ago... What a horror we face as a people when we have long lost the ability to create memories.