True contact between beings is established only by mute presence, by apparent non-communication, by that mysterious and wordless exchange which resembles inward prayer.
— Emil Cioran (via apoetreflects)
I was roaming the knolls of a scoured land, through secret breaths and plants with no past. The mountain rose up—shadow-filled flask briefly embraced by the gesture of thirst. My existence, all traces of me, were slipping away. Your face, looking back, was gliding ahead, a speck in search of the bee to inspire a bloom and charm it alive. We were going to separate. You would remain on the perfumed ridge and I would sink below, into the garden of rift. There, under cover of rocks and in lavish wind, I would gift my sleep to the one true night to deepen your bliss.
— René Char, from “Lichens,” in Stone Lyre, translated by Nancy Naomi Carlson (Tupelo Press, 2010)