The palm at the end of the mind, beyond the last thought, rises in the bronze distance. A gold feathered bird sings in the palm, without human meaning, without human feeling, a foreign song. You know then that it is not the reason that makes us happy or unhappy. The bird sings. Its feathers shine. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
24th September 1945
The best sea: has yet to be crossed.
The best child: has yet to grow up.
The best days: have yet to be lived;
and the best word I wanted to say to you
is the word I have not yet said.
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