As Orwell reminded us: “political language … is designed to make lies sound truthful and murder respectable, to give an appearance of solidity to pure wind

https://theconversation.com/on-being-ill-at-100-virginia-woolfs-best-essay-still-shapes-how-we-read-sickness-274061

I’ve always liked the plants that grow in cracks

The weeds between the cobbles in our street

The wallflowers in the cliffs, the weedy tracks

We walked upon the cobbles with bare feet.

The flowers and weeds grow faster in the heat.

The shrubs burst into growth they feel no lack

Neither do the insects beat retreat

The sun is rising and defeats the black.

To see a weed in winter is a treat

Little children take delight in that

And those who grew up in a mill town street.

The little blades of green will feed the cat.

Do not take for granted tiny joys

These are the humble words that God employs