The pool reflected darkness, and dreams were found therein. Meditating by the unmoving waters, I searched its center: A wolf cub at his mother’s teat, warm in her inviting fir; An owl turning its head in the night; there a man, dressed in skins, comes out of the forest, his breath visible in the late winter air. I watch the world in my pool, never speaking, never doing, just seeing. Horror, love, joy, are all mine in this little retreat; my hovel outside the universe holds a window.

And on the other side of the pool, sometimes I look up to see, the statue, its empty eyes pouring out tears. The salty water runs over, filling the center of the room, perpetually making the pool. Yet the pool is still, calm, never a ripple though the tears always fall into it. The cold stone thing sees not the dreams I see in its tears, but I, made of flesh, am less to do with the life I see than this stone.

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