Hadn't I once a youth that was lovely, heroic, fabulous,
something to write down on pages of gold? - I was too
lucky! Through what crime, by what fault did I deserve
my present weakness? You who imagine that animals
sob with sorrow, that the sick despair, that the dead
have bad dreams, try now to relate my fall and my sleep.
I can explain myself no better than the beggar I no
longer know how to talk!
From the same desert, toward the same dark sky, my
tired eyes forever open on the silver star, forever; but
the three wise men never stir, the Kings of life, the
heart, the soul, the mind. When will we go, over
mountains and shores, to hail the birth of new labor,
new wisdom, the fl
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