She has not yet been born: she is music and word, and therefore the untorn, fabric of what is stirred. Silent the ocean breathes. Madly day’s glitter roams. Spray of pale lilac foams, in a bowl of grey-blue leaves. May my lips rehearse the primordial silence, like a note of crystal clearness, sounding, pure from […]

Logg inn for å lese videre (abonnenter).

Støtt uavhengige nyheter!

Bli abonnent

Pluss-artikler blir åpnet 24 timer etter publisering. Artikler som er eldre enn to år er forbeholdt abonnenter.

Les også

-
-
-
-
-
-
-