In the grass which has overgrown reasons and causes, someone must be stretched out blade of grass in his mouth gazing at the clouds. It does so near Cannae and Borodino, at Kosovo Polje and Guernica. There is a gas station in a small plaza in Jericho, and freshly painted benches near Bila Hora. Letters travel between Pearl Harbor and Hastings, a furniture truck passes before the eyes of the lion of Cheronea, and only an atmospheric front advances towards the blossoming orchards near Verdun. There is so much of Everything that Nothing is quite well concealed.
Music flows from yachts near Actium and couples on board dance in the sunlight.
So much keeps happening, that it must be happening everywhere. Where stone is heaped on stone, there is an ice cream truck besieged by children. Where Hiroshima had been, Hiroshima is again manufacturing products for everyday use. Not without its charms is this terrible world, not without its mornings worth our waking. Maybe there are no fields other than battlefields, those still remembered, and those long forgotten, birch woods and cedar woods, snows and sands, iridescent swamps, and ravines of dark defeat where today, in sudden need, you squat behind a bush.