PICTURE OF LIFE

It comes, it goes, it knocks, and then suddenly the time-fragment of dying minutes leaps on. To my room I wander like a bamboozled frog. The streets' black maws, like plundered, burnt-out graves, craters stare back at me. - In starry darkness all is calm:

The sober wit of existence rests on my pillow, broken in pieces, to save its endless toil for eternity and then carry it on! Then I feel it: Every victim who has gone to ruin is also a scapegoat for blundering, a living protester and proclaimer who cherishes and protects his vulnerability.

And yet - he ends a beggar beggar, for he has never made his voice heard in the dust of the road! - But long since I have been building a mysterious incognito bastion Around me silent, desperate, untrammelled, confiding, independent solitude Without my whispering, half-voiced word, I cannot yet be trampled!

A proud cavalcade of ice-creams, a shackling of tastes, of arguments, is enthroned in my number, Above me the diamond pools of tears, the pissing pools, light my prodigal way! The dishonoured conscience needs the redemption of words, of hot deeds, and the feeble man's blunders are the sins of Action!

 The much-trodden, missed confessions: I would have set out for fragile victories, but the impatient moment has snatched from me the All-preserving chance, in which the immortal sentiment may ever last, and surely take hold!