Explore "The Machine of the World" by Carlos Drummond de Andrade on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
And as I slowly rambled down a stony road in Minas Gerais, and late in the day a hoarse bell blended with the dry, punctual sound of my shoes, and as birds hovered in the leaden sky, their black shapes slowly dissolving into the larger darkness that came from the hills and from my own disillusioned self, the Machine of the World began to open for one who'd lost all desire to breach it and mourned for once having wanted to.
Majestic and circumspect it opened, without emitting one impure sound nor more light than could be suffered by these pupils sore from scanning so much desert, or this mind exhausted from imagining an entire reality that transcends itself same image drawn on the face of mystery, in the depths.