As the future ripens in the past,so the past rots in the future --a terrible festival of dead leaves.

Instead of wisdom -- experience, bare,That does not slake thirst, is not wet.Youth's gone -- like a Sunday prayer.Is it mine to forget?On how many desert roads have searched IWith him who wasn't dear for me,How many bows gave in church IFor him, who had well loved me.I've become more oblivious than inviting,Quietly years swim.Lips unkissed, eyes unsmiling --Nothing will give me back him.

True love's memory, You are heavy!In your smoke I sing and burn,And the rest -- is only fireTo keep the chilled soul warm.To keep warm the sated body,They need my tears for thisDid I for this sing your song, God?Did I take part of love for this?Let me drink of such a poison,That I would be deaf and dumb,And my unglorious gloryWash away to the final crumb.

Like a white stone at the bottom of the well,One memory lies in me.I cannot and I do not want to struggle,It is both joy and suffering.I think that anyone who looks into myEyes will all at once see him.More sad and pensive he'll becomeThat heard the story of this suffering.I know that the gods had turnedPeople to objects, without killing mind,That divine sadness lived eternally.You're turned into my memory, I find.