Holy spirits, you walk up there in the light, on soft earth. Shining god-like breezes touch upon you gently, as a woman`s fingers play music on holy strings. Like sleeping infants the gods breathe without any plan; the spirit flourishes continually in them, chastely kept, as in a small bud, and their holy eyes look out in still eternal clearness. A place to rest isn`t given to us. Suffering humans decline and blindly fall from one hour to the next, like water thrown from cliff to cliff, year after year, down into the Unknown.SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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