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The insane is better than the drunken.
He can see the train
that comes through the lane.
He can feel the rain
and cover himself
before he is drained.
Though his pain may be in vain,
for he is no longer sane— ever since he lost his name.
See,
the insane will run
when he sees a gun,
for his blood is his sum.
Even when his mind is numb,
he knows what danger has become.
But the drunken
may think it is fun.
He will not run,
even when he hears
the war has begun.
See the drunken man
lying down in the street,
in that horrible place
where every stranger meets.
His head is drowned in wine,
so deep within the haze
he cannot read the sign.
He is partly insane— not because he has lost his mind,
but because the drink
has taken away his ability to think.
Therefore, drink little
and be glad.
Never take too much,
for too much is bad.
Take a little wine
even when you're sad,
for when drunkenness turns mad,
it can become
the worst nightmare
you have ever had.
And say less
about the mad people— the insane
who have never caused you evil.
They are already burning
inside their own flames.
Say something kind to them.
Speak without blame.
For sometimes
the mind can break
without the person
ever choosing to break it.
And sometimes
the person we call insane
is simply someone
fighting a war
we cannot see.