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The snow is falling on the deserted field of my life, and my hopes, which roam far, are afraid of becoming frozen or lost.

The days aren't discarded or collected, they are bees that burned with sweetness or maddened the sting: the struggle continues, the journeys go and come between honey and pain. No, the net of years doesn't unweave: there is no net. They don't fall drop by drop from a river: there is no river. Sleep doesn't divide life into halves, or action, or silence, or honor: life is like a stone, a single motion, a lonesome bonfire reflected on the leaves, an arrow, only one, slow or swift, a metal that climbs or descends burning in your bones.
When we look back over the landscape of our lives from any particular vantage point, we will find that the most valuable and the most precious things that we have ever enjoyed or experienced are caught up in the quality and quantity of the loving relationships that we have enjoyed. That if any time of life we look back and we have accomplished anything else in the world, financially or materially or politically or any other way, and we do not have high-quality loving relationships to fall back on and to remember and to think about and to enjoy, to that degree we have failed as human beings.

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