God did not create the past, nor death nor pain,
But he who breaks the laws,
His days are – woes;
So, sensing evil, wards off memory, in vain!
Wasn’t he like a child that whirs by in a dray,
Saying: “O! An oak tree
Deep into the woods . . . it flees! . . .”
– The oak stands still, the cart sweeps the children away.
The past is here today, and today is even further:
Beyond the wheels the village is there,
Not – something, somewhere,
Where people never gathered! . . .