Ah, Life! You are like some eternal polestar, rushing toward us from that distance— an unknown melody from Hamelin's piper.
Oh Life! Yet what is this arrogance of yours? This pride, for what?
Dressed as mirage, you swallow daily countless travelers' fierce torrents, in the blink of an eye you make birth itself a lie, I see all our time consumed in the tangle of right and wrong, you bind us in such chains and keep teaching— how can we trample shadows day after day like this!
At birth I see you left an envelope in these two hands, I open it and find it completely empty—nothing there at all! No letters, no words, not even a map of the road!
With this envelope in hand, which way do I go? There's nothing in it! What's there is only white, pure white! Just a scrap of blank paper!
So I thought, since there's nothing here, what harm could there be in writing? Day by day, writing bit by bit, the day I'd written it all, you came again! Sitting still before my face, spitting on that scrap of paper, you said... is it that simple? Nothing will come of what you're thinking! Look there—the Creator sits laughing!
Tearing that paper to shreds, you gave me another blank scrap! All this time I've been writing and keep writing, yet suddenly you said, everything's already written, long ago! If you knew it all, then why did you give me that blank white paper?
By now Life smiles gently and says, You fool! If you hadn't written, what else would you have done lying around?
I understood at last— this staged pageantry, He watched, He listened, what was happening and what would happen, He knew it all, yet still He said... write and keep on writing! Life means destiny written by a hand that is not my own!