world poetry read by

world people.

Collection of Poems

thursday, november 20, 2014 webster’s café and bookstore

10th annual Found in

Translation event

enjoy the voices, sounds and poetry of over 15 different cultures!

Special Thanks to Our “Found in Translation” 2014 Poetry Readers

Top from left: Nithin Varma (India | Malayalam); Bahaeddine Taoufik (Tunisia | French); Yanni Cao (China | Mandarin); Jaroslav Jansky (The Czech Republic | Czech); Abhishek Rao (India | Kannada); Erika Anseloni (Brazil | Portuguese); Vanda Hurnyi Mikone (Hungary | Hungarian); Sarah Osmane (Lebanon | Arabic); Ukranian guest; Clara Hensel (Germany | German); Dr. James Brasfield (Penn State professor of English | Introductory remarks)

Front row, seated, from left: Sumithra Surendralal (India | Malayalam); Dr. Gabeba Baderoon (South Africa | Afrikaans); Renata Horvatek (Croatia | Croatian); Tatjana Neuberger (Croatia | Croatian); Claudia Prieto (Colombia | Spanish)

Not pictured: Karin Eklӧf (Sweden | Swedish) and Loreta Treviño (Mexico | Spanish)

Special Thanks to our Event Host

Balada iz predgrađa I lije na uglu petrolejska lampa Svijetlost crvenkastožutu Na debelo blato kraj staroga plota I dvije, tri cigle na putu. I uvijek ista sirotinja uđe U njezinu svijetlost iz mraka, I s licem na kojem su obično brige Pređe je u par koraka. A jedne večeri nekoga nema, A moro bi proć; I lampa gori, I gori u magli, I već je noć. I nema ga sutra, ni prekosutra ne, I vele da bolestan leži, I nema ga mjesec, I nema ga dva, I zima je već, I sniježi... A prolaze kao dosada ljudi I maj već miriše... A njega nema, i nema, i nema, I nema ga više I lije na uglu petrolejska lampa Svijetlost crvenkastožutu Na debelo blato kraj staroga plota I dvije, tri cigle na putu.

Croatia (Croatian)

Renata Horvatek

Balada iz predgradja / Ballad from the Suburbs

by Dobriš a Cešarić (1992)

Ballard from the Suburbs … And the petroleum lamp sheds still Its red-orange light On the deep mud near the old fence And two, or three bricks on the road. And always the same poor walk by Under its light from the darkness, And with their worried faces Pass it in a few steps. But one evening someone's missing, Who should've come; And the lamp burns, Burns in the fog, And the night falls. And he's missing tomorrow, the day after too, And they say he lays in bed ill, And he's missing for a month and two, And it's winter already, And it's snowing... And the people still pass And the scent of May's in the air... But he's missing, and missing, and missing, And he's no more And the petroleum lamp sheds still Its red-orange light On the deep mud near the old fence And two, or three bricks on the road.

ഓമനത്തിങ്കള്‍ക്കിടാവ ാ?

ഓമനത്തിങ്കള്‍ക്കിടാവോ? ന ്ലനകോമലന മാത്ത മൂവ ന ് പൂ ില്‍ലനിറഞ്ഞലമധുന ്ലപൂിപൂര്‍ണ്നേന്ദു തനുലെ നിറലനികോ ന ് പുത്തന്‍ലപ ിഴനിക ടാവോ?ിന ്ലനിെറുെത്ത ള്‍ക്ലനി ഞ്ുുംലനിമ ഴിന ് െ ഞ് ടാവോ?ി ടാവോ?ുുംലമ ിനകോ ്ലമൃദുലപഞ്മുംലപ ടാവോ?ുുംല ു ിനകോ ് െുള്ളുമിാമ ന്‍ല ിടാവോ? ന ്ലന ഭലനി ള്ളുനിന ൂനനിക ടാവോ?ിന ് സ്െൂൂിലെ നിറലമണനമ ്ലനപര്‍ണ്ത്തുുംലകത്തു ള്‍ക്കുള്ളലോുണനമ ് പൂമണനമനിറ ൂുല നറ ്ലഏറുംലനിപ നില്‍ല കോര്‍ണ്നിന ൂുലമ നറ ് ദ ഹുംല ാ ുുംലജകോനമ ്ലമ ര്‍ണ്ഗനം ദുംല ാ ുുംലെണനകോ ് എനുേി ൃഷ്ണന്‍ലജനിനച ്ലപ ൂികോിങ്ങനിനലന ഷുംലധൂിനച ്

India (Malayalam)

Nithin Varma and Sumithra Surendralal

ഓമനത്തിങ്കള്‍കിടാവോ? ന ?‍

Omanathinkal Kidavo?

by Irayimman Thampi (1813)

Omanathinkal Kidavo?

Is this a darling moon-child?

Nectar in a flower, or the pearly moonlight?

A shining coral gem, or the twittering of little parrots?

A dancing peacock, or a crooning cuckoo?

A bounding fawn, or a glorious white swan?

The fragrance of musk, or the essence of all goodness?

Flower-scented breeze, or the purity of gold?

Water to quench thirst, or shelter in sorrow?

Or is this the incarnation of the divine, in this little world of mine?

Stressa inte, oroa dig inte (EXCERPT) Ät mycket vegetarisk mat, sänk ditt kolesterolvärde, men se till att få i dig alla livsviktiga proteiner och mineraler och inte minst vitamin b12. brist på b12 ger dig håravfall, depressioner och i värsta fall för tidig död. men kött är ännu värre, det ruttnar i kroppen och täpper igen dina blodkärl, vilket också är livsfarligt. men stressa inte, det gör det bara värre. Ärv bra gener, ha ett kreativt arbete, var i solen och akta dig för solen. ha en snygg kropp men var inte ytlig. hitta dig själv, var framåt, ta det lungt, ta för dig, visa hänsyn, ha skinn på näsan, ha kött på benen, var ödmjuk, var dig själv och anpassa dig. ärv bra gener. ät olivolja, men stek för allt i världen inte olivolja. var om dig och kring dig, ta det lungt, engagera dig, var kreativ, stressa inte, oroa dig inte, hitta dig själv, ärv bra gener, mät din mage, ha bra en bra självsyn, ta hand om andra, tänk på dig själv, stressa inte, oroa dig inte. Do not stress, Do not worry (translated by Karin Eklöf)

Don´t let anyone else define who you are, don’t compare yourself with anyone else. Find your own way in life and do it as early as possible, definitely before you pick your college major. But do not stress and do not worry. Be confident! If you have low self-esteem, people will look down on you, and you will be just as ugly as you think you are. It can take a lifetime to build self-confidence, but it can shatter in a matter of seconds. But do not stress and do not worry, because it will shine through and it doesn’t look very nice at all. Do not repress you problems and internal conflicts. If you keep it all to yourself it will find alternative out-lets and make you sick both mentally and physically. But don’t go around and whine about your prob-lems either, life is too short to be gloomy. Be happy, laughter is the best medicine. So you should have fun all the time, surround yourself only with funny people and be funny yourself. Otherwise, no one will want to be with you and loneliness is a killer, that’s scientifically proven. But also get to know yourself and enjoy your own company, because one day you’ll be on your own. But do not stress and do not wor-ry. Be an active consumer, your choices are shaping the future of the world. Start at your own workplace, in your school, at your child's daycare. Get involved in all of the local issues, but even more so in the global conflicts because they concern you, if the world ends your child's daycare is finished to. Sort your waste, bike to work, spend all spare time with your family, get involved in unions, in sports, and have your own hobby, do not stress and do not worry. But if you never stress, it is because you have no purpose, and if you never worry, it is because you do not care. So stress. Worry. It's fine. It’s just a sign that you’re alive.

Sweden (Swedish)

Karin Eklo f

Stressa inte, oroa dig inte / Do not stress, Do not worry

by Emil Jenšen

¿Qué Putas Puedo? ¿Qué putas puedo hacer con mi rodilla, con mi pierna tan larga y tan flaca, con mis brazos, con mi lengua, con mis flacos ojos? ¿Qué puedo hacer en este remolino de imbéciles de buena voluntad? ¿Qué puedo con inteligentes podridos y con dulces niñas que no quieren hombre sino poesía? ¿Qué puedo entre los poetas uniformados por la academia o por el comunismo? ¿Qué, entre vendedores o políticos o pastores de almas? ¿Qué putas puedo hacer, Tarumba, si no soy santo, ni héroe, ni bandido, ni adorador del arte, ni boticario, ni rebelde? ¿Qué puedo hacer si puedo hacerlo todo y no tengo ganas sino de mirar y mirar?

Mexico (Spanish)

Loreta Trevin o

¿Que Putas Puedo?/ How the Hell Can I?

by Jaime Sabineš

How the Hell Can I? What the hell can I do with my knee, with my leg, so long and so skinny, with my arms, with my tongue, with my weak eyes? What can I do with this whirlpool of well-intentioned imbeciles? What can I do with the rotten intellectuals and the sweet girls who don’t want a man but ra-ther poetry? What can I do with the poets dressed in the uni-forms of the academy or of communism? What, among peddlers or politicians or pastors of the soul? What the hell can I do, Tarumba, if I’m not a saint, nor a hero, nor a thief, nor an art lover, nor a pharmacist, nor a rebel? What can I do if I can do it all and I have no desire but to watch and watch?

Czech Republic (Czech)

Jarošlav Janšky

Hříšné Město/ Sinful City

by Jarošlav Seifert (1920)

Sinful City The city of factory owners, boxers, millionaires the city of inventors and of engineers, the city of generals, merchants and patriotic poets With its black sins has exceeded the bounds of God’s wrath: God was enraged. A hundred times he’d threatened vengeance on the town, a rain of sulphur, fire, thunderbolts, hurled down, and a hundre times he’d taken pity. For he always remembered what once he had promised: that even for two just men he’d not destroy his city, and a god’s promise should retain its power Just then two lovers walked across the park, breathing the scent of hawthorn shrubs in flower.

بهواك متيّم

واعلم أّن القلب بك مغرم واللّسان عن ذكرك ال يسأم يختال طيفك امامه فيقول محبوبي إني بك متيم

قد اقتحمني اعصار الهوى فكيف تقول أّنك ال تعلم ؟

أال تشعر بقلب قال أهواك

وقد أصابته من عشقك أسهم ؟ ألم تشهد على حبي البحار

واالقمار واالنجم ألم تقل لك العصافير واالزهار

ودمع على الخد متألم ؟

كيف ذاك وحبك شاغلي

وبعينك قصائدي تتنّغم

فباهلل عليك كيف تقول أنك ال تشعر بحبي وال تعلم

Lebanon (Arabic)

Sarah Ošmane

Fond of You / بهواك متّيم

by Sarah Ošmane (2014)

Fond of you You should know that my heart is fond of you

And my tongue doesn’t stop mentioning you

Your picture doesn’t leave my eyes, and my heart

Is saying you are the beauty, the melodies and the art

The storm of your love invaded my life

Don’t you know that you are all my life?

Don’t you feel a heart that declared his passion?

After being shot by your eyes with compassion

Haven't the seas, the stars and the moons witnessed?

Haven’t the birds, roses and tears told you that I am with you enamored? How does this happen, when your love is my dream

And with your eyes my poems find their melodies’ stream

I make you swear by God to tell me how you couldn’t know

That I love and care for you so؟

Canção do exílio Minha terra tem palmeiras Onde canta o sabiá. As aves que aqui gorjeiam Não gorjeiam como lá. Nosso céu tem mais estrelas, Nossas várzeas têm mais flores. Nossos bosques têm mais vida, Nossa vida mais amores. Em cismar, sozinho, à noite, Mais prazer encontro eu lá. Minha terra tem palmeiras Onde canta o sabiá. Minha terra tem primores Que tais não encontro eu cá; Em cismar — sozinho, à noite — Mais prazer encontro eu lá. Minha terra tem palmeiras Onde canta o sabiá. Não permita Deus que eu morra Sem que eu volte para lá; Sem que desfrute os primores Que não encontro por cá; Sem qu'inda aviste as palmeiras Onde canta o sabiá.

Brazil (Portuguese)

Erika Pioltine Anšeloni

Canção do exílio / Song of the Exile

by Anto nio Gonçalveš Diaš (1843)

Song of the Exile My land has palm trees Where the thrush sings. The birds that sing here Do not sing as they do there. Our skies have more stars, Our valleys have more flowers. Our forests have more life, Our lives have more love. In dreaming, alone, at night, I find more pleasure there. My land has palm trees Where the thrush sings. My land has beauties That cannot be found here; In dreaming — alone, at night — I find more pleasure there. My land has palm trees Where the thrush sings. May God never allow That I die before I return; Without seeing the beauties That I cannot find here; Without seeing the palm trees Where the thrush sings.

再别康桥 徐志摩

轻轻的我走了，

正如我轻轻的来；

我轻轻的招手，

作别西天的云彩。

那河畔的金柳

是夕阳中的新娘

波光里的艳影，

在我的心头荡漾。

软泥上的青荇，

油油的在水底招摇；

在康河的柔波里，

我甘心做一条水草 。

那树荫下的一潭，

不是清泉，是天上虹

揉碎在浮藻间，

沉淀着彩虹似的梦。

寻梦？撑一支长篙，

向青草更青处漫溯，

满载一船星辉，

在星辉斑斓里放歌

但我不能放歌，

悄悄是别离的笙箫；

夏虫也为我沉默，

沉默是今晚的康桥！

悄悄的我走了，

正如我悄悄的来；

我挥一挥衣袖，

不带走一片云彩。

China (Mandarin)

Yanni Cao

再别康桥 / Saying Goodbye to Cambridge Again

by Zhimo Xu (1928)

Saying Good-bye to Cambridge Again Very quietly I take my leave As quietly as I came here; Quietly I wave good-bye To the rosy clouds in the western sky. The golden willows by the riverside Are young brides in the setting sun; Their reflections on the shimmering waves Always linger in the depth of my heart. The floating heart growing in the sludge Sways leisurely under the water; In the gentle waves of Cambridge I would be a water plant! That pool under the shade of elm trees Holds not water but the rainbow from the sky; Shattered to pieces among the duckweeds Is the sediment of a rainbow-like dream. To seek a dream? Just to pole a boat upstream To where the green grass is more verdant; Or to have the boat fully loaded with starlight And sing aloud in the splendor of starlight. But I cannot sing aloud Quietness is my farewell music; Even summer insects heap silence for me Silent is Cambridge tonight! Very quietly I take my leave As quietly as I came here; Gently I flick my sleeves Not even a wisp of cloud will I bring away

El Niño y la Mariposa

Mariposa, Vagarosa Rica en tinte y en donaire ¿qué haces tú de rosa en rosa? ¿de qué vives en el aire? Yo, de flores Y de olores, Y de espumas de la fuente, Y del sol resplandeciente Que me viste de colores. ¿Me regalas tus dos alas? ¡son tan lindas! ¡te las pido! deja que orne mi vestido con la pompa de tus galas.

Colombia (Spanish)

Claudia Prieto

El Niño y la Mariposa / The Boy and the Butterfly

Rafael Pombo (1856)

Tú, niñito tan bonito, tú que tienes tanto traje, ¿Por qué quieres un ropaje que me ha dado Dios bendito? ¿De qué alitas necesitas si no vuelas cual yo vuelo? ¿qué me resta bajo el cielo si mi todo me lo quitas? Días sin cuento De contento El Señor a ti te envía; Mas mi vida es un solo día, No me lo hagas de tormento

¿Te divierte dar la muerte a una pobre mariposa? ¡ay¡ quizás sobre una rosa Me hallarás muy pronto inerte. Oyó el niño Con cariño Esta queja de amargura, Y una gota de miel pura Le ofreció con dulce guiño Ella, ansiosa, Vuela y posa En su palma sonrosada, Y allí mismo, ya saciada, Y de gozo temblorosa, Expiró la mariposa.

The Boy and the Butterfly Butterfly, flying by rich in colour, full of grace What do you live on up high? Why do you that rose embrace? I live off flowers and smells and off the fountain's foam, and from the brilliant sun flare that clothes me in a colored robe. Will you gift me your two wings? They're so lovely… Would you please? Colour to my clothes they'll bring if the splendor of your dress I seize.

Little boy, oh, little boy you who own so many clothes, why would you wish to employ the one God gave me and I own? Why would you need wings if you don't fly as I do? What's left for me in the winds if I give my all to you? Countless joyful days the Lord sends your way, but I have just one tomorrow; please don't turn it into sorrow.

Do you regale in bringing death? Would you take a butterfly's last breath? Perhaps on a rose nearby soon my stiff body you'll find. The boy heeded fondly the butterfly's bitter protest, and a drop of pure honey with a sweet wink he offered her. Flying anxiously she lands on the boy's rosy palm and right there, satisfied, trembling in delight, the butterfly breathed its last.

Sehnsucht Es schienen so golden die Sterne, am Fenster ich einsam stand und hörte aus weiter Ferne ein Posthorn im stillen Land. Das Herz mir im Leibe entbrennte, da hab' ich mir heimlich gedacht: Ach, wer da mitreisen könnte in der prächtigen Sommernacht! Zwei junge Gesellen gingen vorüber am Bergeshang, ich hörte im Wandern sie singen die stille Gegend entlang: Von schwindelnden Felsenschlüften, wo die Wälder rauschen so sacht, von Quellen, die von den Klüften sich stürzen in Waldesnacht. Sie sangen von Marmorbildern, von Gärten, die überm Gestein in dämmernden Lauben verwildern, Palästen im Mondschein, wo die Mädchen am Fenster lauschen, wann der Lauten Klang erwacht, und die Brunnen verschlafen rauschen in der prächtigen Sommernacht.

Germany (German)

Clara Henšel

Sehnsucht / Longing

by Jošeph von Eićhendorff (1834)

Longing The stars were shining so golden, When I was standing lonely at the window And heard from a great distance A post horn in the silent country. My heart became inflamed with passion in my chest, So I thought secretly: Oh, who could travel with them In this magnificent summer night! Two young fellows went By the mountain slope, I heard them singing while hiking Through the silent region: Of dizzy rocky gorges, Where forests murmur gently, Of sources that fall from clefts Into the forest of night. They sang of pictures of marble, Of gardens that overgrow the rocks In dawning bleaks, Palaces in the moonlight, Where girls are listening at the windows, When the sound of lute awakes, And the founts murmur sleepily In the magnificent summer night.

Hungary (Hungarian)

Vanda Hurnyi Miko ne

A Nyúl mint tolmács / The Rabbit as an Interpreter

by La za r Ervin (1973)

Hungary (Hungarian)

A Nyúl mint tolmács / The Rabbit as an Interpreter

Continued...

Ma Ma, ek skryf vir jou ‘n gedig sonder fensie leestekens sonder woorde wat rym sonder bywoorde net sommer ‘n kaalvoetgedig want jy maak my groot in jou krom klein handjies jy beitel my met jou swart oë en spits woorde jy draai jou leiklipkop jy lag en breek my tente op maar jy offer my elke aand vir jou Here God. jou moesie-oor is my enigste telefoon jou huis my enigste bybel jou naam my breekwater teen die lewe ek is so jammer mamma dat ek nie is wat ek graag vir jou wil wees nie

South Africa (Afrikaans)

Gabeba Baderoon

Ma

by Antjie Krog (2008)

Ma Ma, I write you a poem free of fancy punctuation without words of rhyme no adverbs just a barefooted poem like, just because - because you raise me in your small crumpled hands you beg me with your black eyes and sharp words you turn your limestone mind you laugh and break up my tents yet every evening you offer me your God. Your moled-ear my only telephone your house my only bible your name, my breakwater against living I am so sorry mamma that I am not, as I so desire all you wish I would be….

Quand je me promène dans Paris Quand je me promène dans Paris Il m'arrive de penser Que si mon cœur l'a conquis Il a fallu des années Aussi j'en suis très fière Et je n’en veux plus partir Je suis votre martyr Je crois que j'entends des voix Depuis que je vis en France Est-ce de ma faute a moi Si j'aime l'histoire de France Je veux chanter pour elle Les rêves de ma jeunesse Pour vous je me fais belle Paris me tient en laisse Quand je me promène dans Paris Il m'arrive de penser A mon ancienne patrie Il y a bien des années Aussi j’e suis très fière Et je ne veux plus partir Gardez-moi prisonnière Je suis votre martyr Je crois que j'entends des voix Et je me sens tout en transe Est-ce de ma faute a moi Ou bien à l'histoire de France

Tunisia (French)

Bahaeddine (Baha) Taoufik

Quand je me promѐne dans Paris /

When I walk through Paris

Lyrićš by Jaćqueš Vaućlair; Mušić by Didier Roland

When I walk through Paris When I walk through Paris It makes me think If my heart was won over It took years I also feel very proud And I do not want to leave I am your martyr I think I hear voices Since I have lived in France Is it my fault that I love the history of France so much I want to sing for her Dreams of my youth For you I am beautiful Paris keeps me on a leash When I walk through Paris It makes me think Of my ancient country There are many years That I feel very proud And I do not want to leave Keep me prisoner I am your martyr I think I hear voices And I am in a complete trance Is it my fault or Perhaps that of the history of France

India (Kannada)

Abhišhek Rao

ಯುಗಾದಿ ಹಾಡು / The Song of Yugadi

by D. R. Bendre

The Song of Yugadi “Ages after ages, Millennium after millennium, The Yugadi keeps on coming! Bringing with it new joy of the new year and of a new life. I can hear the melody of the love-struck beetle, on the golden lush fields. A new life every year, a new joy Childhood, adolescence midlife and old age every year Death at every sleep, rebirth when you awake Through this cycle we are immortal Ages after ages, Millennium after millennium, The Yugadi keeps on coming!

Croatia (Croatian)

Tatjana Neuberger

Svakidašnja jadikovka / Daily Lament

by Auguštin (Tin) Ujević (1920)

Svakidašnja jadikovka Kako je teško biti slab, kako je teško biti sam, i biti star, a biti mlad! i biti slab, i nemoćan, i sam, bez igdje ikoga, i nemiran, i očajan. I gaziti po cestama, i biti gažen u blatu, bez sjaja zvijezde na nebu. Bez sjaja zvijezde udesa što sijaše nad kolijevkom sa dugama i varkama. – O Bože, Bože, sjeti se svih obećanja blistavih što si ih meni zadao. – O Bože, Bože, sjeti se i ljubavi, i pobjede, i lovora, i darova. I znaj da Sin tvoj putuje dolinom svijeta turobnom po trnju i po kamenju, od nemila do nedraga, i noge su mu krvave, i srce mu je ranjeno. I kosti su mu umorne, i duša mu je žalosna, i on je sam i zapušten. I nema sestre ni brata, i nema oca ni majke, i nema drage ni druga.

I nema nigdje nikoga do igle drača u srcu i plamena na rukama. I sam i samcat putuje pod zatvorenom plaveti, pred zamračenom pučinom, I komu da se potuži? Ta njega nitko ne sluša, ni braća koja lutaju. O Bože, žeže tvoja riječ i tijesno joj je u grlu, i željna je da zapavi. Ta besjeda je lomača i dužan sam je viknuti, ili ću glavnjom planuti. Pa nek sam krijes na brdima, pa nek sam dah u plamenu, kad nisam krik sa krovova! O Bože, tek da dovrši pečalno ovo lutanje pod svodom koji ne čuje. Jer meni treba moćna riječ, jer meni treba odgovor, i ljubav, ili sveta smrt. Gorak je vijenac pelina, mračan je kalež otrova, ja vapim žarki ilinštak. Jer mi je mučno biti slab, jer mi je mučno biti sam (kada bih mogo biti jak. Kada bih mogo biti drag) no mučno je, najmučnije biti već star, a tako mlad!

Croatia (Croatian)

Svakidašnja jadikovka / Daily Lament

Daily Lament How hard it is to be weak, how hard it is to be alone, and to be old, yet to be young! and to be weak, and powerless, alone, with no one anywhere, dissatisfied, and desperate. And trudge bleak highways endlessly, and to be trampled in the mud, with no star shining in the sky. Without your star of destiny to play its twinkling on your crib with rainbows and false prophecies. – Oh God, oh God, remember all the glittering fair promises with which you have afflicted me. Oh God, oh God, remember all the great loves, the great victories, the wreaths of laurel and the gifts. And know you have a son who walks the weary valleys of the world among sharp thorns, and rocks and stones, through unkindness and unconcern, with his feet bloodied under him, and with his heart an open wound. His bones are full of weariness, his soul is ill at ease and sad, and he’s neglected and alone, and sisterless, and brotherless, and fatherless, and motherless, with no one dear, and no close friend,

and he has no-one anywhere except thorn twigs to pierce his heart and fire blazing from his palms. Lonely and utterly alone under the hemmed in vault of blue, on dark horizons of high seas. Whom can he tell his troubles to no-one’s there to hear his call, not even brother wanderers? Oh God, you sear your burning word too hugely through this narrow throat and throttle it inside my cry. And utterance is a burning stake, though I must yell it out, I must, or, like a kindled log, burn out. Just let me be a bonfire on a hill, just one breath in the fire, if not a scream hurled from the roofs. Oh God, let it be over with, this miserable wandering under a vault as deaf as stone. Because I crave a powerful word, because I crave an answering voice, someone to love, or holy death. For bitter is the wormwood wreath and deadly dark the poison cup, so burn me, blazing summer noon. For I am sick of being weak, and sick of being all alone (seeing I could be hale and strong) and seeing that I could be loved), but it is sickening, excruciating before all, to be old, yet to be so young!

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