“Roads not for human feet, stairs made of malachites on
which the thin mists break into shreds, theories leading to
the golden white of immaculate peaks where the
slope of the sun spreads a ruby glory. The lake lay
silent — blackened in pain, like a lidless eye that
stares forever, like a piece of night caught in
fossilized, sad hands. like the ghosts of a person
cursed forever. they stood looking at each other without
words, but sincerely into the silence that was
drowned out by the song of nature— the witch.”
- Maria Pawlikowska-Jasnorzewska