The wind seems to be blowing through the gaps in the conversation like the rushing of empty space.
ยท
The wind seems to be blowing through the gaps in the conversation like the rushing of empty space.
“What hast thou, O my soul, with paradise?
Will we not rather, when our freedom’s won,
Get us to some clear place wherein the sun
Lets drift in on us through the olive leaves
A liquid glory?”
Ezra Pound | “Blandula, Tenulla, Vagula”