A literal, but not quite, prosaic translation of a poem by Vladislav Khodasevich (1887, Moscow–1939, Paris) that must have something to do with Leibnitz’s monads.
My soul is like a full moon:
It’s cold and clear.
On high, on its own, it shines and shines
And will not dry my tears;
My grief does not hurt it;
The howl of my passions it cannot heed –
And exactly how much I’ve suffered down here,
The glowing soul ought not to know.