The days arent discarded or collected, they are bees that burned with sweetness or maddened the sting: the struggle continues, the journeys go and come between honey and pain. No, the net of years doesnt unweave: there is no net. They dont fall drop by drop from a river: there is no river. Sleep doesnt divide life into halves, or action, or silence, or honor: life is like a stone, a single motion, a lonesome bonfire reflected on the leaves, an arrow, only one, slow or swift, a metal that climbs or descends burning in your bones. -Pablo Neruda, Still Another Day
Posted on: Tue, 14 Oct 2014 17:35:38 +0000
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