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Sometimes, when a bird cries out, or the wind sweeps through a tree, or a dog howls on a far-off farm, I hold still and listen a long time.

My soul turns and goes back to the place where, a thousand forgotten years ago, the bird and the blowing wind were like me, and were my brothers.

My soul turns into a tree, and an animal, and a cloud bank. Then changed and odd it comes home and asks me questions. What should I reply?

— Hermann Hess, translated by Robert Bly

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