.
In every instant, two gates. One opens to fragrant paradise, one to hell.
Mostly we go through neither.
.
Mostly we nod to our neighbor,
lean down to pick up the paper,
go back into the house.
.
But the faint cries—ecstasy? horror?
Or did you think it the sound
of distant bees,
making only the thick honey of this good life?
.
~ Jane Hirshfield
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