Every morning, the sun would come up from the same horizon. Predictable, monotonous, taking the earth time and again in the same warm embrace, with a confidence that only a faithful lover could boost of having. So dull and yet so glorious in his unfaltering promise of eternal return, the sun does come back. In spite of the distance, in spite of the cold and the emptiness of the universe.
Every morning, the earth, in spite of the habit, would welcome him with the same ardour as in the first encounter. Forgetting the centuries of routine, the nights of desertation, and lightening up in anticipation of her timeless companion, while the trees, like hairs, would sway as her body shivers in the morning breeze.
She could disappear a hundred years behind her cloudy veil. She could, in her anger, blow her lungs out in ravaging tempests and then, upon regretting, sweep us all with the wild torrents of heavenly tears that he will dry up with a gentle, forgiving caress.
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