All these matters, great and small, which torment
us or occupy us and trouble our minds, day and night, with the small—the infinitesimally
small—fraction of truth which the world can contain: what do they amount to for
man at the critical moment? And what do we leave behind us? When you put
everything together within yourself and sum it up—prophecy, mysteries,
knowledge, faith (yes, even faith)—what finally remains, in this world, apart
from Love? What is left, even of
those countless worlds that circle endlessly ‘in limitless space’ in the
universe, as the Zakynthian poet Kalvos says:
The
storm clouds have fled on the wind,
never
and nowhere to be found.
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