Our memory is childish and it saves only what we need.

Not that I want to be a god or a hero. Just to change into a tree, grow for ages, not hurt anyone.

The death of a man is like the fall of a mighty nation That had valiant armies, captains, and prophets, And wealthy ports and ships all over the seas.

I imagine the earth when I am no more: Women's dresses, dewy lilacs, a song in the valley. Yet the books will be there on the shelves, well born, Derived from people, but also from radiance, heights.

On the day the world ends A bee circles a clover, A fisherman mends a glimmering net.

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

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?