Tierra Del Uomo.
The white rush was the shadow of what wounds you. & though the melodies are often different & sometimes the meanings the object is always the same. Evening star, morning star, an overall husbandry of means prevails, seeing how far we can go on how little, the crowsnest theory of perfect fires which, when we wish each other well, takes us to the common place where we discover what we look for is what we find, that dry country where they trap in pools sudden rain. What moves us now beyond ourselves touches us with these distant feelings as before the storm, lento, lento, we hear the terrible horses stamping in their stalls. A circus of birds chatters above still waters. & although he arrives before you, you recognize the stranger. As you wipe steam from the window, you see his black hat among white roses of smoke, waving, slowly waving.