Through the slow shadows the cows approach, warm evening mothers, that rather stay than go. Their eves are great flowers, their bodies are full of grass. Almost plants they are, groping their way home on gently walking roots. It was summer. All is as before.
Nothing is as before, for nothing has happened.
You never dared to receive, and your gifts were only a protecting wall. My friend, you have misunderstood everything. Life is not the goods, it is the price. Empty-handed you turn round, but it does not matter. This region is only a mental image, a counter to entombment.