A song is the wound of love that things open in us. Coarse man, the only thing that arouses you is the woman’s womb, a mass of female flesh. But our disquiet is continuous; We feel the thrust of all the beauty of the world, because the starry night was for us a love as sharp as carnal love. A song is a response we offer to the beauty of the world. And we offer that response with an uncontainable tremor, just as you tremble before a naked breast. And because we return, in blood, this caress of Beaut, and because we respond to Beauty’s infinite calling through the paths, we walk more timorously, more reviled than you: we, the pure.