At every instant and from every side, resounds the call of Love: We are going to sky, who wants to come with us? We have gone to Heaven, we have been the friends of the angels, And now we will go back there, for there is our country.
Alas, where is there still a sea in which one could drown: thus our lament resounds – across shallow swamps.
The poetic image […] is not an echo of the past. On the contrary: through the brilliance of any image, the distant past resounds with echoes.
When a tree falls it resounds with a thundering crash; and yet a whole forest grows in silence.