The lament that follows was born of an essay I penned after re-reading The Iliad through the figure of Thersites: truth-speaker, scapegoat, silenced. Where the essay names the mechanisms—divine deceit, aristocratic coercion, popular complicity—the mythic poem strives to give breath to that silenced voice through Antipseudes of Elis, a fictive low-born warrior who speaks from within the wound of the epic itself. Against the degradations of later tradition—most starkly in Quintus Smyrnaeus’ Posthomerica, where Thersites is struck down in rage by his companion-in-arms Achilles, not in duel nor battle but unjustly, unarmed, unready, and unaware, and then buried in the earth rather than burned upon a pyre, in defiance of Achaean custom—the lament restores what Homer only intimates: that the truth-speaker saw clearly, and that to remember him, and the vision he bore, is the conscience of witness. Thersites’ voice, mocked in antiquity, is recognized belatedly by thinkers such as Hegel and Nietzsche.
The Lament of Antipseudes of Elis
After the Fall of Troy of the High Walls
“What glory is this, that tastes of ash and allotted fate?”
I. The Weight of Victory
Ten winters I carried this spear, ten summers I dreamed of home—
the olive grove behind my father’s house, the way morning light fell across my wife’s sleeping face.
Now Troy burns behind us, her towers cracked like broken teeth,
and the wind carries the smell of what the immortals and kings call victory: blood and smoke, the stench of the fallen.
They say we have victory. They say our names will echo through the halls of distant kings,
that singers will sing of this day when the world was young.
But we—nameless before kings and heroes, we who bore the spears, we who remember our companions—
we think of Phegaios, who fell at the Scaean Gate, beneath the shadow of the consecrated beech,
his shield-arm shattered, calling for his mother as the light left his eyes.
What song will remember that he loved to carve small birds from olive wood, that he wept the night before battle—
not from fear, but from beauty; the way starlight fell on the wine-dark sea, too lovely for a world that would end him tomorrow?
II. The Kings’ Glory
Agamemnon stands proud upon the battlements, his bronze breastplate catching the flame-light of the city.
He speaks of destiny, of honor served, of the gods’ will made manifest in spear-point and sword-edge.
But what did Helen know of our ten years’ dying? What did she dream in Priam’s halls
while we bled the earth black beneath Troy’s walls?
Was her face worth Patroklos, torn and broken? Worth Hector’s son, dashed against the stones? Worth the thousand nameless sons who will never see their fathers’ fields again?
The kings divide the spoils— gold and bronze, slaves and chariots, of a broken world.
But they cannot divide the weight that settles in a warrior’s chest
when men no longer fall, and the silence gapes like a wound across the blood-soaked plain.
III. What the Dead Know
In the grey hour before dawn we walked among the pyres where our companions burned.
Their smoke rose straight into the windless sky, and we thought: here is truth—
not in the golden masks of heroes, not in the songs that will outlive our bones, but in this.
Not only kings waged war at Troy, nor only the heroes whose names the singers will praise. These also bore the spear, or fell in dust:
Phegaios of the beech, who fell at the Scaean Gate beneath the sacred tree, calling for his mother as the bronze pierced his side.
Echelaos of Argos, new to war, who upheld the host but died clutching a lock of hair cut from his sister’s head— a pledge never delivered.
Lēthios the forgetful, the goatherd’s son, barely bearded, who drowned in his own blood until Thersites drew him forth, yet lived to forget the hand that saved him.
And I—Antipseudes of Elis, opposer of lies— who live to speak the lament of the nameless many.
What do the dead know that we, the living, have forgotten? What wisdom lies in their silence?
Perhaps this: that glory is a word spoken by those who were not there
when the bronze bit deep, when the earth drank its fill of young blood, when the horses screamed and would not be comforted.
Perhaps this: that a man’s worth is not measured in the length of his shadow cast by the pyre-flames,
but in the small kindnesses— the water shared, the wound bound, the hand held in the dark hour before the last battle where men meet their fate.
IV. The Voice We Silenced
I remember Thersites.
Not his name—no one speaks his name now, though once it rang across the ranks like bronze on bronze, clear and true and terrible.
He was ugly, yes— twisted-legged, sharp-voiced, the kind of man whom kings saw not, though he stood before them.
But when he spoke that day in the ninth year, when Agamemnon deceived us, pretending to release us only to test our hearts—
Thersites alone, voice of the low-born, truth-speaker, spoke what we all knew:
What share have we in Atreus’ son’s portion? Why must our bones bleach white on the Scamandrian plain, while he grows fat on Trojan plunder?
The words hung like loosed arrows trembling in the morning air.
For one bright moment we saw ourselves clearly: not heroes, not bearers of glory, but flesh offered up to feed another’s pride.
Then Odysseus rose— Odysseus the much-turning, whose counsels coiled like serpents in the dust, whose tongue bore honey and venom both—
and did not quarrel. He beat him. Beat him bloody with the royal scepter while we—gods forgive us— we laughed.
We laughed, but the gods had blinded us. We cast his voice into dust, and cheered the silencing of the truth-speaker, as fate compelled.
Had we listened, had we sailed that day— Hector would breathe still, Achilles would grow old in Phthia’s fields, Priam’s grandson would chase shadows through Troy’s unfallen towers.
But we chose laughter. We chose the war. We chose to die rather than hear what the ugly man dared to say:
that we were fools, that we were cattle, that our lives meant less to our kings than the bronze in their coffers.
But listen—Thersites died not as the coward Odysseus made him seem, not cowering in his tent or fleeing from the fray.
He died on the day Patroklos fell, that day of ruin when the Greeks were driven back to the ships, when bronze points flashed like lightning and the sand drank rivers of blood.
The field was chaos and screaming— chariots overturned, horses mad with terror, shields splintered, spears shivered, and men cried out for mothers no longer living.
In that storm of ruin, young Lēthios—barely bearded, homesick for his goats— took a spear through the lung and lay drowning in his blood.
No king was watching. No god took note.
The hour was desperate, the deed unheroic: Thersites crawling through the bodies, hauling the boy across the bloody sand while the clash of bronze roared about him.
The boy lived. Lives still, perhaps, somewhere in Argos, telling his young sons and daughters stories of the war, never speaking the name of the man who dragged him from the edge of death.
And Thersites? A Trojan blade found his heart as he shielded the boy’s retreat.
He made no sound— no cry for help, no call to glory, no final words for singers to polish into verses of bronze.
He simply fell, face-down in the bloody sand, his truth-telling mouth stopped with earth.
We burned him on a common pyre with a dozen others— companions-in-arms whose names the smoke carried skyward and scattered on the wind, whose deeds no singer will praise before kings.
But we remember:
the man who spoke against the war died saving a life, not for glory, not for honor, not for the gold of distant kingdoms, but because a boy was drowning in his blood and someone had to act.
What share have we in Atreus’ son’s portion?
The question follows us like a shade, unanswered still,
though half our number— Thersites among them— perished on the soil of Ilium some mourned, some forgotten, some remembered only by the wind.
V. The Long Road Home
Tomorrow we sail for the wine-dark waters of home.
Some speak of wives and children waiting at the harbor, of olive groves heavy with fruit, of wine that tastes of peace.
But we have seen too much to believe in simple homecomings.
The men who left for Troy ten years past lie buried somewhere beneath the walls we have torn down, buried with the voice of Thersites, buried with the truth we cast into dust.
What strangers wear their faces now? What shades return to sit at ancestral tables, to hold the hands we knew, to feign that time and blood and the weight of blood have not cut deep furrows in their hearts?
The ships wait, black-hulled against the morning light. The oars are ready, the sails hang slack as old skin.
But before we go, let me speak this truth into the ashes of the fallen city:
We came for glory. We found only that men die as simply as leaves fall in autumn—
and that we ourselves chose to silence the one voice that might have stopped the falling.
We came as heroes. We leave as vessels of sorrow— too burdened for song, too grievous for memory.
What is victory but the bitter wine pressed from the grapes of other men’s grief?
What is honor but a name we press upon our wounds to make them bearable?
And what are we— who cheered the beating of the truth-speaker, who chose war, who laughed as wisdom bled into the dust?
Epilogue: The Warrior’s Prayer
Hear me, immortals, who sent us forth to toil in war, who moved our hands to this dark work—
grant us this:
Not that our names be remembered in bronze and stone, not that singers will sing our deeds to unborn kings—
But that when we pass to Hades’ shadowed halls, where our fathers dwell, the dead will forgive us the price we laid upon their dying.
Grant that the shadows of Troy’s children will not follow us across the wine-dark sea.
Grant that the blood we spilled here will not cry out from every field we pass.
And if you must remember us, remember this:
that we learned too late the weight of bronze, the true cost of kingdoms, the sacrifice of war.
The ships call. The wind rises.
Troy burns behind us like a star falling into the dark.
Hear me, O boundless halls of shadow, where no lyre sounds save memory’s echo, where the voices of the upper world drift down like falling leaves, carrying my name—swift-footed, godlike, breaker of men— yet here, in this silence deeper than death’s first breath, I am but shade calling to shade across the voiceless deep.
Not as I was in life do I summon you, O dwellers in darkness, swift of foot upon Trojan soil, terrible in bronze and wrath, but as one among the countless dead who wander here, seeking not the glory that the living world still sings, but what no song can restore, no fame redeem.
By Acheron’s dark waters, by Cocytus’ wailing stream, if any shade remembers love, if any echo bears my grief, come forth from asphodel’s pale meadows, enter not Lethe’s merciful waters— let me embrace again what I have lost, not the glory I have won.
The Encounter with Odysseus
Through the mists of the unremembering came Odysseus, his words still honey-bright, his tongue still silver-edged:
“Achilles, no shade walks more blessed than you among the dead! In life, you were honored as a god among mortals; here, you are lord of the departed. Above, the poets crown you with undying flame— your name will never perish from the lips of men.”
But I answered him, bitter with the dust of ages: “Do not gild my shadow, son of Laertes. Better to be a hireling alive, a drudge to some poor man who scratches bread from stubborn earth, than king among these silent multitudes. For what is glory here, where no heart beats to hear it? Your songs reach my name but cannot touch my soul; they raise me to eternity yet leave me hollow as wind through bone.”
The Shade of Patroclus
Then—O mercy of the pitiless dark—I thought I heard you, Patroclus, soft as breath through withered leaves, faint as the last note of a dying lyre string:
“They did not forget me, Achilles… my name is bound to yours in bronze and grief. They sang my fall beneath the walls of Troy, they sang your wrath that shook the earth and sky. They knew… they knew I was beloved.”
“O Patroclus,” I cried across the gulf of silence, “O companion of my heart, O dearer than breath— yes, they sang you, but they knew only shadows. They praised my spear but not your steadying hand, they heard my wrath but not our laughter in the tents, they saw my grief but not the mornings when you woke and the world was whole because you breathed within it. Glory is one thing, beloved, but your nearness was another, greater than all the songs that mortals weave.”
Then darker came your voice, like distant thunder: “Yet had you not brooded, had you not nursed your wounded pride, I might have lived to see another dawn. I wore your armor, Achilles, and with it, your doom— my blood became the price of your great wrath, my grave the shadow of your choice. They sing your glory, but it is built upon ashes from my pyre.”
I reached through the darkness, but my hands closed only on emptiness, and you dissolved like mist before the merciless sun.
The Voice of Echo
Then from the depths where memory dwells eternal, Echo came, bearing fragments of what was, and in her broken voice I heard my mother’s prophecy, scattered like pearls upon the wine-dark deep:
“Two fates… two fates bear you toward death’s end… toward death’s end, my son… If here you remain… remain fighting the sons of Troy… brief is your life… brief… but your glory undying… undying through all the generations of men… If homeward you sail… you sail to Phthia’s shore… long life awaits… awaits… but your name dies with you… dies with you like smoke upon the wind…”
“Two roads… two roads I set before you… before you, child of my bitter grief… Choose… choose… but know that I will lose you… lose you in either path you take…”
Her voice faded like waves withdrawing from a distant shore, leaving me more orphaned than before, knowing now the weight of what I chose, the golden chain that binds my doom.
The Torment of the Fates
Then came the daughters of Necessity, Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos stern, their voices cold as iron, pitiless as winter stars:
“No thread is rewoven, son of Thetis; what is cut by our shears remains cut. You chose the song of men, and it is sung forever; you chose the path of wrath, and it is walked to its end. Dream not of other dawns, for the spindle turns not backward. The pattern is complete, the weaving done— you are bound within your own bright doom, remembered by all the world, and yet undone.”
Their laughter rang like bronze on bronze, a sound to crack the pillars of the world, and in that cruel music I heard the truth: I am the hero of my own destruction, the author of my endless, empty fame.
Epilogue: The Wisdom of Shadows
So here I abide, Achilles famed beyond forgetting, yet hollow as the caves where no wind stirs. From Lethe’s bank to Styx’s binding waters, the shades whisper my name with reverence, but reverence is cold comfort to the dead.
O Patroclus, my brother, my breath made flesh— they remember our names twined in bronze and sorrow, but none recall the quiet mornings when you woke and smiled, and the world was made new. The poets crown me with eternal fire, but eternity burns cold without you near.
Learn this, you who still draw breath beneath the sun: choose not wrath over love, nor fame over the hand beside you. One dawn with the beloved, one moment’s grace when heart speaks truly unto heart, is worth more than all the ages of song. Better to be forgotten with love’s warmth upon you than to blaze forever in the cold halls of memory, alone.
I saw it—yes—just there, in the silence between breaths: a blade of grass bowed not by wind but by a single flicker of light, that tender emissary of dusk— the lightning bug, that priest of fire who blesses every meadow.
O you small bearer of green and gold, what vast wisdom coils within your tiny belly? What songs do you blink to the darkened world, what truths do you flash to the blade you hold?
I, too, have grasped the green earth in my palm— felt its tremble and thrum, watched a whole summer declare itself in the way grass leans toward starlight.
Do not speak to me of empires and theories— tell me instead how the hush after thunder is where the soul begins, how the firefly remembers the sun, and carries its pulse through the hollows of night.
Here is your scripture: dew-wet grass, the pulse of insect wings, the scent of warm loam rising at twilight— and yes, the low chant of crickets, singing hosannas in the key of soil.
I stand barefoot in this republic of clover, declaring allegiance to the unnoticed: to the tree frog’s stillness near an old stump, the clover’s soft petition beneath my heel, the breeze that forgets no leaf, the dandelion seed drifting without regret, the shimmer barely seen, the flash in the periphery, the small, bright pulse that stirs the dusk and reminds me—ah!—I am alive.
For is it not enough to say: a lightning bug chose a blade of grass, and that was revelation?
“The poem is the cry of its occasion, / Part of the res itself and not about it.” — Wallace Stevens, “An Ordinary Evening in New Haven”
Lacrimae Sanguinis 2025: A Lamentation in Four Movements
By Donald S. Yarab
I.
Lacrimae sanguinis, Animae nigrae hominum terram maculant. They walk not as men, but as shadows unshriven, Each step a silence, each breath a wound. The ground groans beneath the weight of the fallen, And justice, long buried, forgets her name. No trumpet sounds for the guiltless slain, Only the whisper of blood in the dust.¹
Lacrimae sanguinis— The blackened souls of men stain the earth.
II.
Hate kindles fires no rain can quell, Greed carves its name in the marrow of kings. Fear is a vulture, circling unborn hopes, Its wings beating lies into trembling hearts. These three—unholy trinity—march undenied,² And temples crack beneath their tread. Where once stood gardens, now only ash— And the breath of God withdraws in sorrow.³
Lacrimae sanguinis— The blackened souls of men stain the earth.
III.
No voice comes forth from the cloud or flame, The heavens are sealed in unyielding hush.⁴ The stars avert their gaze, and time forgets its course— Even the winds have ceased to speak His name. Altars stand cold, their offerings stale, And the priest no longer lifts his hands. The silence is not peace, but exile— A stillness too vast for prayer to fill.⁵
Lacrimae sanguinis— The blackened souls of men stain the earth.
IV.
He turned His face—and we, our backs.⁶ Not in wrath, but in weary disdain. The mirror cracked, the image lost, And we wander, eyes open yet unseeing.⁷ We build our Babels in crumbling dust, Raise thrones upon bones, call ruin law. Light knocks, but we bolt the gate from within— And call the silence proof He never was.⁸
Lacrimae sanguinis— The blackened souls of men stain the earth.
Footnotes:
“Shadows unshriven” / “Justice… forgets her name” — Cf. Psalm 82:6–7 and Isaiah 59:14–15. Echoes of prophetic lament over moral collapse and unreconciled souls.
“Unholy trinity” — An inverted image of Augustine’s De Trinitate: hate, greed, and fear form a perverse sacred order.
“Gardens turned to ash” — Evokes Eden undone. The breath of God (Genesis 2:7) has withdrawn.
“The heavens are sealed” — Amos 8:11–12; Lamentations 3:8. Divine silence as the most damning judgment.
“Silence… not peace, but exile” — Apophatic void, not luminous unknowability. Cf. Isaiah 45:15: Deus absconditus.
“He turned His face” — Inverts the Aaronic blessing (Numbers 6:24–26). A divine turning not in anger, but in sorrowful withdrawal.
“Mirror cracked” — A fall from incomplete vision (1 Corinthians 13:12) into permanent distortion.
“Call the silence proof He never was” — Resonates with Nietzsche’s “God is dead,” here framed as mutual estrangement, not denial.
Note: The image of the soul as stained through inordinate attachment finds classical expression in Summa Theologica I–II, Q.86, Art.1, where Aquinas defines sin’s stain not as a substance, but as a privation of the soul’s brightness—a metaphorical shadow cast when the soul cleaves inordinately to created things, against reason and divine order. In this lamentation, the stain is projected outward: what is blackened within stains the world without.ain is projected outward—what is blackened within stains the world without.
It is easy to imagine the critical response already. Some heir to Harold Bloom’s anxiety-of-influence throne would ascertain that I, the creator, am anxious, insecure, prone to nail-biting—that I found it necessary to express my anxiety in more apparatus than poem, drowning the verse in scholarly scaffolding because I lack confidence in the work’s ability to stand alone.
Such banal criticism would miss the point entirely. If I were anxious about critical reception, if I were truly insecure about the poem’s merits, I would have foregone apparatus altogether in sure foreknowledge of such harsh rebuke. The apparatus exists precisely because I am secure in my intent, my method, and my purpose. I am not writing for elite pedantics and pedagogues who jealously guard their interpretive privileges, but for myself and any who wish to partake of poetry’s riches, whatever their opportunity to swim in the canon’s depths.
The truth is, those who argue against apparatus are those who would have poems essentially confined to an elite club, complete with secret handshakes, symbols, and degrees of membership. Like Skull and Bones or the Masonic lodges, traditional poetry criticism has long functioned as an initiatory society where full membership requires years of study, the right mentors, and familiarity with increasingly obscure reference points. The “let the poem stand on its own” argument sounds democratically pure but functions as cultural gatekeeping, preserving poetry as the domain of those who already possess the cultural capital to decode allusions, recognize forms, and trace influences.
When critics rail against apparatus, they defend a system where interpretive authority belongs to those with the “right” education, the proper literary pedigree. The poem becomes a kind of shibboleth—if you do not immediately recognize the echoes of Job, the inversions of Augustine, the liturgical cadences, well, perhaps serious poetry isn’t for you.
My apparatus dismantles that exclusivity. It offers initial guideposts to anyone willing to engage, no secret handshakes required. This is cultural hospitality, not anxiety—a deliberate act of democratization that makes visible the materials from which the poem emerged.
The Method: Nexus, Interaction, Reflection
A poem does not emerge from nothing. It rises from what might be called a nexus—a convergence of memory, reading, experience, and the particular urgency that calls forth language. In composing Lacrimae Sanguinis, this nexus became especially visible: biblical lament tradition, Thomistic theology, contemporary spiritual desolation, and liturgical rhythms that have shaped both prayer and protest for centuries. But rather than hide this genealogy, I choose to make it visible as part of the poem’s offering.
The nexus is not a conscious construction—it cannot be willed into being. Rather, it emerges when conditions are right, when reading and experience have prepared a space where seemingly unrelated elements suddenly reveal their hidden kinship. The Latin refrain lacrimae sanguinis did not arise from scholarly deliberation but from convergence, where liturgical memory met contemporary anguish.
Within this nexus, meaning arises through interaction—the dynamic tension between elements that resist easy synthesis. The “unholy trinity” of hate, greed, and fear stands in deliberate tension with Augustine’s conception of divine Trinity, not as simple inversion but as recognition of how spiritual language can be perverted by the very forces it seeks to name and resist. The line “He turned His face—and we, our backs” emerges from interplay between the Aaronic blessing and the lived experience of mutual estrangement.
The apparatus participates in this interaction by creating dialogue between poem and source. When I note that “silence is not peace, but exile” resonates with Isaiah’s Deus absconditus, I do not suggest the poem merely illustrates the biblical text. Rather, I propose that ancient prophetic cry and modern spiritual dislocation illuminate one another—that meaning arises in their interaction, not in either alone.
The apparatus reveals process without explaining away mystery. When I show that “He turned His face—and we, our backs” emerges from tension between Aaronic blessing and contemporary estrangement, I do not solve the line’s meaning—I multiply its resonances. The reader now encounters not just the line’s immediate emotional impact but also its dialogue with liturgical tradition, its inversion of expectation, its theological implications. The apparatus does not reduce mystery to mechanism; it shows how many mysteries converge in a single moment of language.
This transparency serves poetry’s deepest purpose: not to mystify through obscurity but to reveal the actual complexity of experience. When sources remain hidden, readers may sense depths they cannot fathom and mistake inaccessibility for profundity. When sources become visible, the true marvel emerges—not that the poet knows obscure references, but that these disparate materials can achieve such unity, that ancient texts still speak to contemporary anguish.
Finally, reflection—not as conclusion but as ongoing process. The apparatus serves this reflective function, helping both creator and reader recall not just sources but the quality of attention that makes encounter possible. By showing rather than hiding the poem’s genealogy, it acknowledges that interpretation is always collaborative, that meaning emerges from ongoing conversation between text and reader.
Confidence, Not Anxiety
This method emerges from confidence rather than defensiveness. When apparatus functions generously, it says to readers: here are some materials that were present when this poem emerged, but you are free to make of them—and of the poem itself—what you will. This represents confidence in both the work’s integrity and the reader’s capacity for independent meaning-making.
Critics will object that apparatus risks over-determining meaning, that by naming sources I constrain interpretation. This objection misunderstands how meaning actually works in poetry. The apparatus does not tell readers what to think about the convergence of Nietzschean pronouncement and prophetic lament—it simply makes that convergence visible as one layer among many.
Consider the reader who recognizes the Aaronic blessing inversion without consulting footnotes, discovers resonances I never anticipated or intended, and finds connections to their own liturgical memory. The apparatus does not prevent this encounter—it enriches the conversation by adding another voice. Meaning multiplies rather than contracts when more materials become available for interaction.
The real constraint on interpretation comes from ignorance, not knowledge. When readers miss allusions entirely, they are trapped in partial understanding. When sources become visible, readers gain freedom to accept, reject, or build upon the connections offered. The apparatus functions as invitation, not limitation.
We live in an age where what was once common cultural knowledge—biblical narratives, classical philosophy, liturgical traditions—can no longer be assumed as shared reference points. This is not a failure of readers or education but a consequence of cultural acceleration. Neither poets nor readers can be expected to carry the full weight of cultural memory. When canonical works become unfamiliar, when classical allusions require explanation, apparatus serves not as condescension but as courtesy.
The apparatus preserves a record of one moment’s convergence—the nexus as it appeared when the poem emerged—but it cannot and should not constrain future encounters. It functions as invitation rather than explanation, creating conditions for ongoing dialogue rather than settling interpretive questions once and for all.
Method as Cultural Hospitality
What emerges is method as interpretive generosity rather than critical control. The apparatus offers tools for encounter while acknowledging that even the creator does not exhaust the poem’s meaning. The poem, once written, becomes available for encounter rather than possession, even by the one who wrote it.
This hospitality extends to readers at all levels of familiarity with the sources. Those who recognize the allusions immediately may find additional layers in seeing them made explicit. Those encountering Augustine or Isaiah for the first time receive invitations to explore further. Those who prefer immediate encounter may ignore the scholarly apparatus entirely. All approaches are welcome.
In this way, creative method and interpretive philosophy align. Both resist the fantasy of complete control or final understanding. Both acknowledge that meaning emerges in relationship. Both find fulfillment not in closure but in the ongoing conversation they make possible.
The apparatus, properly understood, serves this conversation. It is not the last word on the poem’s meaning but an invitation to the kind of careful attention that allows meaning to emerge. Like the poem itself, it creates conditions for encounter rather than commanding specific responses.
This is method in poetry as in interpretation: not a tool of conquest but a lens through which the materials of experience might reveal some of their hidden connections. The nexus forms, interactions unfold, reflection deepens—and occasionally, if conditions are right, something emerges that was not there before. Something worth sharing with anyone willing to receive it.
Northcoast Antiquarian 