The moonlit night dazzled us.
Birds shrieked in the trees.
There was a rush of wind in the fields.
We crawled through the dust, a pair of snakes.
There is a destination, but no path to it;
what we call a path is hesitation.
None sing as purely as those in deepest hell;
it is their singing we take for the singing of angels.
The true path goes by way of a rope
that is suspended not high up,
but rather just above the ground.
It's purpose seems to be more
to make one stumble
than walked upon.
Kurtág: Kafka Fragments
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