The sword sang on the barren heath,
The sickle in the fruitful field;
The sword he sung a song of death,
But could not make the sickle yield.
The sword sang on the barren heath,
The sickle in the fruitful field;
The sword he sung a song of death,
But could not make the sickle yield.
“How can one life with the idea of journeys one’s never made and with those that are over? There’s a bitter taste to such landscapes. Your cell may be well-built of books you love, but you’ll never leave it, as their rich aroma sends you to sleep.”
Philippe Soupault