Definitive Death of Peter the Long

the pebbles at the bottom of the river, smooth, unblemished, polished, and the water washes them, runs over them with that tiny rush that she herself knows, where did these stones, eternally washing themselves in the Guaso, come from, what sands formed them, there is no air to count them, there is no sun to show them, there is no voice to detail their exact molecules for me, pressed together, pres...