dal bellissimo libro sui Deerhounds- a most perfect creature in heaven- due pezzetti di una stupenda poesia che sento molto vicina a me
And the wind that blows over me here on the crest of the hill where no trees are, over the grass & the heather, has a different sound , ancient & sad & shrill,
lonely & wild as the sea; soft as a owlet's feather.
Only the rocks & heather & moor grass growing
sing at his passing; sing to my secret knowing...
Here I am, the self which endures, which is formed of my dreams
which neither age nor condictions can change, born of the eternal.....
that I endured will remain,. Even then I shall still find my soul in the cry of a bird & the wind on the hill....
Honour to the author!
