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Sisyphus' lamentWhen you understand me, you'll understand how repetition is painful, as a symbol of an endlessly recurring time.Everything must flow, otherwise I don't live!Why anger? In order to let a fragile wall hang between desperation and I. When I don't have enough strength to stand up anymore, I won't have any strengths anymore. Then even this rempart will be destroyed by the industrious goings-on of human incoherence. I know I am still human because I am still affected. When I don't feel anything anymore, when I'm calm, when they have brought me down, when I am kneeling, docile, mute, there won't be very much of me left already. Nor anything valuable in this world. Anger, anger is a sign, a sign of life... but of fall.Failure calls for failure. Sadness, for sadness. Mine are hard to process -- others' can't be hidden. Time, stop! may the universe clot, cold, fleshless, deaf and blind! This, is being one -- this, is remaining and not becoming anymore ; contemplating and not planning anymore,
ElegyEvery melody tells of a story:This one is nostalgy of golden hairAnd lavender scented lukewarm dreams.Hesitating elegy of a time that's no moreMurmurs from an epoch henceforth asleep,As a child resting protected from worry:Present, elsewhere, peaceful.
Yet we have to liveNomads in the desertKnow no exile.Sun and storms and the infinite dunesDevour, digest, infiltrate.Sand in the eyes, in the heart, in the mouthIn the lungs, fire.Yet we have to live.
MysteriesThe stars of waned flowers restStreaming down the long hair flowDrawing there ocean reflections, virtuosoMysteries
The country I live inI am not seatedIn a forward-facing seat.My native land gains altitude,I disappear in the abyssal forestsOf the country I live in.
Never dare forgetEven if you take another pillowTo rest your headNever dare forgetThe memory of moonlightFalling on this sleeve wet by our tears
The Death of MuninnIt was a solitary night and the moonlight shed melancholy.He had sent her the branch of a cherry-tree.And a poem : "In every vein of these flowers, hundreds of words are hidden. Take good care of them!"She had replied, with a poem : "In every vein of these flowers, hundreds of words cannot be held. Maybe the flower waned?"A bird screamed over the night sky -- even he had a heart, it seemed.Between the hills, snow hadn't melted. "Spring rain", he said, "don't fall so hard. If you were to hurt the cherry-tree, my hope would be lost".A year had passed, summer fall and spring again, when a note was brought. A poem, with a broken branch of cherry-tree : "A red bird died today and had the memory of you."He wore a feather, and a flower, and a letter, at her funerals.