Allan Kardec

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You have seen many times in certain regions, especially in Provence, the ruins of great castles; sometimes a turret rises amidst the immense solitude and its sad and quiet remains remind us of a time when faith was perhaps ignorant, but when Art and Poetry were raised by that same pure and innocent faith. Notice that this is The Middle Ages. You often don’t think that around those dismantled walls the elegant whim of the lady of the castle vibrated the harmonious strings of the once called Aeolian harps. Well then! The turrets, the ladies of the castle and the harmonies disappeared with the speed of the wind that played them! The Aeolus harps soothed the thoughts of the minstrels and the ladies. They were heard with a religious devotion.

Everything ends on your Earth; poetry rarely reaches the heavens and immediately dissipates; on the contrary, in other worlds, harmony is eternal, and regardless of what human imagination can create here it cannot be compared to that constant poetry that is not only in the heart of pure spirits but also in all of nature.

Réné de Provence

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