But we, in the development of consciousness, have lost the power to see this one as one...
it is the language of poets, in so far as they create true metaphors, which must restore this unity
conceptually, after it has been lost from perception.

I leave before dawn. As the sun rises to enlighten me, my bones are already warming the earth.
A breeze rustles the leaves; golden flowers chime in: Vincent was the painter of a radiant force.

Blue tongues personify a sun whose sparks
leap into the darkness, where our ancestors
   are still dancing
      in tightening