There is a sacred, secret line in loving which attraction and even passion cannot cross.

How the miracle of our meeting Shone there and sang, I didn't want to return From there to anywhere. Happiness instead of duty Was bitter delight to me. Not obliged to speak to anyone, I spoke for a long while. Let passions stifle lovers, Demanding answers, We, my dear, are only souls At the limits of the world.

All that I am hangs by a thread tonight

I myself, from the very beginning, Seemed to myself like someone's dream or delirium Or a reflection in someone else's mirror, Without flesh, without meaning, without a name. Already I knew the list of crimes That I was destined to commit.

Today I have so much to do: I must kill memory once and for all, I must turn my soul to stone, I must learn to live again. Unless ... Summer's ardent rustling is like a festival outside my window.

The triumphs of a mysterious non-meeting are desolate ones; unspoken phrases, silent words.

No, not under the vault of another sky, not under the shelter of other wings. I was with my people then, there where my people were doomed to be.