This is the mill running to surpass time.
This is the hill nursing the stars.
This is the horse with rivers in its eye.
This is the flower, a strangler, and the ocean dressing
the scars of love.
Immanence. Mystery. Desire. An epoch
is finished, you would say, like a novel
you read and re-read
to recover the page where you were born.
This is the red cliff where the night cries
to no longer be night.

-- Alain Bosquet

(from 100 Notes for a Solitude (Cent notes pour une solitude) )
(trans. by William Frawley)