My domain of old was in deep valleys.
The water that trickled in my dreams was never tainted with blood.
The trees' foliage that forgets life was always green in my
forgetting. The moon was fluid like water between stones. Love never
reached that valley, which is why life was happy there. Neither love,
nor dreams, nor gods in temples – and we walked in the breeze and
the indivisible hour without any nostalgia for drunken, useless
beliefs.
Fernando Pessoa
The Book of Disquiet
translation: Richard Zenith
p. 303
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