Going beyond the wasteland, on a little wander in the Black Range mountains today: a diamond brilliance of light, snow still dusting old burn scars, and fresh pine needles, wind torn from trees, to collect for the next batch of pine and rosemary salve.
Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata. Shantih shantih shantih
Read the full text of The Waste Land, written in 1922 by T.S. Eliot, here .
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