They are so frail humans. So easily crumpled and broken, like flower petals under foot.

Alas! in the clothes of the greatest potentate, what is there but a man?

That the world should be filled with such detail, such tiny points of human frailty, threatened to crush her and she had to look away.

I was reminded of a proverb: 'When a clay Buddha statue sails across the river, it can hardly protect itself.

We all are men, in our own natures frail, and capable of our flesh; few are angels.

And what would we be, we sinful creatures, without fear, perhaps the most foresighted, the most loving of the divine gifts?