One has to scale so much ice and dogma before attaining pleasure and awaking—flushed—on the stone of the bed.
For some time there’d been, between them and me, something like a wild hedge. We were free to pick and offer one another its flowering hawthorn. But never further than a hand’s, an arm’s length. They loved me just as I loved them. What was it, though, that obstacle to the wind in which my full strength failed? It was a nightingale that first revealed it to me, then carrion.
Death in life is repugnant, nonalloyable; death, however, within death is something accessible, is nothing: a frightened belly could crawl there without trembling.
I have overthrown the last wall, the one that encircles the snow nomads, and I see—o my very first parents—the candelabra’s summer.
Our figure on earth is only the second third of a continuous pursuit, a point, upland.
[GS]