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

Grow your tree of falsehood from a small grain of truth.

Only a white-haired old man, who would be a prophet Yet is not a prophet, for he's much too busy, Repeats while he binds his tomatoes: No other end of the world will there be, No other end of the world will there be.

I am not my own friend.Time cuts me in two.

All was taken away from you: white dresses, wings, even existence.

Consciousness even in my sleep changes primary colors. The features of my face melt like a wax doll in the fire. And who can consent to see in the mirror the mere face of man?

Poetry is a dividend from what you know and what you are.