The offering has been made.
The heart ripped out, thrown to the care of the stars, then stuffed with solar powder.
I shall leave this putrid jewel on the altar. Let the vultures take it, or let the hour dare to wrap it in a fond shroud, now that it is mine no more, now that my hands will no longer cherish its fate and its blood no longer runs in my dreams.
But the heart, meek, looks at me.
"What is more majestic, the tree or the wind stroking its branches?" it asks.
I ponder, and have no answer.
"The leaf," it says, "in its falling time."
I hold it in my arms. It offers me a tear in farewell. The tear rests on my finger, then escapes to the ground, which awaits it.
I lay it on the altar, turn my back, and step; ahead, like a steppe in winter, lies the tedious immensity of a melancholy.