Learning To believe you are magnificent. And gradually to discover that you are not magnificent. Enough labor for one human life.

What is this enigmatic impulse that does not allow one to settle down in the achieved, the finished? I think it is a quest for reality.

The child who dwells inside us trusts that there are wise men somewhere who know the truth.

And if there is no lining to the world? If a thrush on a branch is not a sign, But just a thrush on the branch? If night and day Make no sense following each other?

You see how I try To reach with words What matters most And how I fail.

If I am all mankind, are they themselves without me?

When I die, I will see the lining of the world. The other side, beyond bird, mountain, sunset.