till my heart became dry, and it seemed to me that beauty was a thing fashioned by the traders in words. Tired I shut the book and snuffed the candle.
In a moment the room was flooded with moonlight.
Spirit of Beauty, how could you, whose radiance overbrims the sky, stand hidden behind a candle's tiny flame?
How could a few vain words from a book rise like a mist, and veil herwhose voice has hushed the heart of earth into ineffable calm?
Poem: The Evening was Lonely, by Rabindranath Tagore
Diciotto
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These beautiful photographs are by Torpore. I feel clumsy, trying to find the right words to describe her work...so I'll just let the images talk for themselves.