Once there was a he who was all night. Shadow of shadows, solitary step, he walked many nights in order to find her. Once there was a she who was all day. Twinkle of wheat, pure dance, she walked many days in order to find him.
They looked for each other much, he and she. The night pursued the day much. They both knew, he and she, of the search that could not be found. It seemed it would never happen, it seemed impossible, it seemed never, ever . . . . And then the dawn came, for him and her. Forever, never . . .
(from: Subcomandante Marcos, Nuestra arma es nuestra palabra, conversations with Durito)