Rolling its blues against another blue, the sea, and against the sky some yellow flowers. October is on its way. And although the sea may well be important, with its unfolding myths, its purpose and its risings, when the gold of a single yellow plant explodes in the sand are bound to the soil. They flee the wide sea and its heavings. We are dust and to dust return. In the end we’re neither air, nor fire, nor water, just dirt, neither more nor less, just dirt, and maybe some yellow flowers.
Pablo Neruda
