Even after being imprisoned, wanting still to live I touch some sadness every day. If ever I forget by mistake who I am or why, how far I've moved from everything within reach, just then sadness floats before my eyes like a faithful straw.
When eyes blaze in the day's thunderous darkness, when this heart begins to dim in night's soundless light, just then sadness blooms, becoming warm. The tasteless sleep of wounds breaks one by one, and the soul lives precisely by being dashed like this!
If this calm sadness didn't keep me company perhaps I too would have made the same mistake as you— thinking solitude was permanent loneliness! To erase the distance between life and death just one or two such mistakes are quite enough!
Each wordless hour comes and compels me to touch sadness. Those who don't know how to touch—piercing the womb of all their sorrows awaken civic propriety, a few fragments of hell's enchantment, or the dawn chorus of those mutes who love sound.
However many times I've thought there's perhaps nothing left to do in this life except shed a tear or two at old love's memorial, just that many times sadness has come to teach me there's no greater stagnation than being truly happy! Even one who finds peace discovers that nothing comes to him in life!
Down despair's endless detailed roads I've wandered carelessly, grown dumb and deaf in the blood's every bubble's ceaseless laughter, and walking that shore I've learned through burning, sometimes through love, that life's meaning is only to bear the weight of ceaseless pain.
Touching this pen brings sadness, touching you brings sadness, touching even a dear friend...that same sadness comes. In sadness's weightless rain all the shame of daily life gets soaked, or the screenplay of living wisdom and every page of it.
Those who live forgetting all shame— their shadows grow larger and larger. Corroded sexuality and muddy love, these two mixing together call out in unison to fire-born sadness or the sunrise of the born-blind.
The way blind people climb stairs—in darkness itself, the way past lives' uprooted thirst stays awake in secret ascent and descent, sadness by the handful pushes even those reckonings to the other side of some hidden self-discourse's speech-wall.
The body that never touched body, the finger that never knew surrender, the forefinger that never broke a vow, the truth that never stood bowed— in their deep-black shadows sadness trembles like a violin bow.
They have nothing else worth mentioning, only this much remains.