People have wanted to narrate since first we banged rocks together and wondered about fire. There’ll be tellings as long as there are any of us here, until the stars disappear one by one like turned-out lights.
·
People have wanted to narrate since first we banged rocks together and wondered about fire. There’ll be tellings as long as there are any of us here, until the stars disappear one by one like turned-out lights.
“Who is she coming, that the roses bend
Their shameless heads to do her passing honour?
Who is she coming with a light upon her
Not born of suns that with the day’s end end?
Say is it Love who hath chosen the nobler part?
Say is it Love, that was divinity,
Who hath left his godhead that his home might be
The shameless rose of her unclouded heart?
If this be Love, where hath he won such grace?
If this be Love, how is the evil wrought,
That all men write against his darkened name?
If this be Love, if this …
O mind give place!
What holy mystery e’er was noosed in thought?
Own that thou scan’st her not, nor count it shame!”
Ezra Pound | “Chi È Questa?”