If neither brass, nor marble, can withstand
The mortal force of Time’s destructive hand;
If mountains sink to vales, if cities die,
And less’ning rivers mourn their fountains dry;
When my old cassock, said a Welsh divine,
Is out at elbows, why should I repine?
“A mythical animal, the vicuña fares well in the volcanic regions of northern Peru. Light thunders down on it, like Milton at his daughters. Hear that? – they are counting under their breath. When you take up your axe, listen. Hoofbeats. Wind.”
Anne Carson | “Short Talk on Vicuñas”