I liked beaches, swimming pools, and clinics for there they were the bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh. I pitied them and myself, but this will not protect me. The word and the thought are over.

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

Even if that is so, there will remain A word wakened by lips that perish, A tireless messenger who runs and runs Through interstellar fields, through the revolving galaxies, And calls out, protests, screams.

Consolation Calm down. Both your sins and your good deeds will be lost in oblivion.

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?

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

It is sweet to think I was a companion in an expedition that never ends