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Contarini's avatar

The emperor passes away, he ends up as bones beneath a heap, worldly greatness become dirt, and the bones of his horses are scattered, and I wonder where all the paintings of horses are? The only tangible thing which might have survived would be the paintings, but the steppe people, some horde or another, who we glimpse in these poems, likely laid waste to all such delicate and beautiful things in one of their incessant incursions or conquests. So, probably, the paintings, too are long gone. So, as usual, as ever, only words -- characters -- outlast any man, even the Emperor, and his beautiful horses, and all other beautiful works of man. If one wants to work in an enduring medium, nothing matches the durability of words.

(Also, this is the first time I ever heard of a thuja.)

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Portia's avatar

I love the context and stories behind these remarkable poems, they come alive.

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