In the cross of Christ I glory,Towering o'er the wrecks of time;All the light of sacred storyGathers round its head sublime.
The seasons and the years came and went. . . and always. . . one was, as the crow flies, about 2,000 km away - but from where? - and day by day hour by hour, with every beat of the pulse, one lost more and more of one's qualities, became less comprehensible to oneself, increasingly abstract.