![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjghNiFtgT5xWS72F31fmeibOeC6ZsT1JTdT_6xlhZjG16dvsiA1i8IVg2XeQ9tmq6jVR5-t0GaYr2l8NlfnNkqLiWplQhww97m8Al7RXY73ubLSk2wbd2WTjseTV3RyuLDRGPHu4IzkQU/s320/fogggy.jpg)
All things become islands before my senses,
which accept them as a matter of course: a murmur of silence.
All things in this darkness—I can know all of them,
just as I know that blood flows in my veins.
The plain is a great flowing of water through plants,
a supper of all things. Each plant, and each stone,
lives motionlessly. I hear my food feeding my veins
with each living thing that this plain provides.
From Passion for Solitude, by Cesare Pavese
No comments:
Post a Comment