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No one perceived the beauty
Of the habitual walks
Until the dreadful shout
And the aching contortion of the martyr
Flung himself down the complex greenish sky
In a reckless descent of water and of shadows
The unanimous storm
He struck the humiliation of the houses
And the world was loathsome to the looks
But when the gentle chest
Illuminated with its colors the sky
And the odor to the wet land
Encouraged the gardens
Throw themselves to walk the streets
Like for a revived country estate
And in the glass were generosities of the sun
And the lighted leaves that illustrate the woods
Said his quivering immoral summer.


Jorge Luis Borges, 1923

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