The Moor
It was like a church to me.
I entered it on soft foot,
Breath held like a cap in the hand.
It was quiet.
What God was there made himself felt
Not listened to, in clean colours
That brought a moistening of the eye,
In a movement of the wind over grass.
There were no prayers said. But stillness
Of the heart's passions - that was praise
Enough; and the mind's cession
Of its kingdom. I walked on,
Simple and poor, while the air crumbled
And broke on me generously as bread.
R. S. Thomas
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Do not imagine that you are alone in your village, in your city, or among the infinite worlds.
Do not imagine that you are enchained to this time and this space.
Do not imagine that upon your death, loneliness will become eternal.