Wind on my cheek, lightly, connects me with all it touches.
The thought of who, what and where escapes me, a falling star: I can never fathom it in numbers and names.
But in the blue evening, pink flowers burst behind the fading altar.
In the hurried clamor of trucks collecting trash, I hear my link to discarded multitudes.

« Le ciel: lien oblique m’unissant à ceux qui respirent sous son étendue; m’unissant même aux êtres à venir. »
Georges Bataille, Le Coupable

(« Sky: oblique link uniting me with those who breathe under its expanse; uniting me even with the beings to come. »)