Stardust and a song on pamandjanet.
“From which stars have we fallen to meet each other here?” Nietzsche
I trudged across a snowy parking lot this morning and could not help but think of Zhivago, the poet at the time of revolution. The writer Pasternak caught that moment in time. The snow deep and then shallow, snow blowing into my scarf, into my eyes, seeing only my shoes….the snow gradually breaking into a muddy road. Zhivago, with the soft eyes of the poet, Zhivago, the doctor who loved and lost, Zhivago, who looking out across the Russian plains saw the summer fields of grasses and flax, thistle and wheat; in winter, the dark forests looming at the edge of meadows. Zhivago who heard the grey wolves calling and saw them gather at his cabin in the dawn of early morning. And Zhivago who saw the blood of Revolution splatter on his fields, in his…
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