Even with the trivial, with
the insignificant (as long as it is done out of love) we begin, with work and
with the repose that comes afterward, with a silence or with a small solitary
joy, with everything that we do alone, without anyone to join or help us, we
start Him whom we will not live to see, just as our ancestors could not live to
see us. And yet they, who passed away long ago, still exist in us, as
predisposition, as burden upon our fate, as murmuring blood, and as gesture
that rises up from the depths of time.