"——This is love."
Sophocles was so certain, his voice deep and low.
He raised the booklet in one hand, reciting passionately as if absorbed in it, his magnetic and quivering voice made him sound like a poet: "I sing only for my own ears, I only listen to the songs that joy me. My tongue speaks only strong and forceful words for myself. My hands scrawl and labor only for myself, my feet run wild like those of a wild horse, galloping through the fields at my own will——
"But only my eyes——my eyes do not belong to me.
"What I see, is not my own world but the light in everyone's eyes...
"Therefore, I declare! I am not man, nor am I light, I am he who peers into the light, the one who beholds the Celestial Chariot!"
——That was a verse from the "Odes to the Celestial Chariot."
Sophocles's right hand left Vladimir's shoulder.
"Celestial Chariot——"
He bowed deeply to Annan, performing a respectful salute: "I praise the Celestial Chariot."
