Soon, amid the clothing and the smoke on the sunken table, like a shuffled deck of cards, there appears the human soul: quartz and sleepless nights, tears in the ocean like pools of cold. [....]
[...] dew has for a thousand years been leaving its transparent calling-card on the branch that awaits it: O heart, O shattered
brow among the pitted expanses of autumn.
--Pablo Neruda, from "The Heights of Macchu Picchu"
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