“my being was shot through by the fallen veils of dreams glinting among the shrouds of years and the opal lustre of clay at the bottom of a freshly dug grave, and the clouds kept pausing like thickening smoke bestridden by the night, and the stars kept bursting into song, welcoming the joy that slowly opened its sleepy eyes, and the soul looked on with mute lamentation.”
Book:Boží duha