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At the world’s center lies a place between
The lands and seas and regions of the sky,
The limits of the threefold universe,
Whence all things everywhere, however far,
Are scanned and watched, and every voice and word
Reaches its listening ears. Here Rumour dwells,
Her chosen home set on the highest peak,
Constructed with a thousand apertures
And countless entrances and never a door.
It’s open night and day and built throughout
Of echoing bronze; it all reverberates,
Repeating voices, doubling what it hears.
Inside, no peace, no silence anywhere,
And yet no noise, but muted murmurings
Like waves one hears of some far-distant sea,
Or like a last late rumbling thunder roll.
Ovid, Metamorphoses XII: 39–52