A keresés eredménye

The Unconscious

The familiar Specter that goes with me,
Without me still being to see its visage,
That sometimes I stare at with disgust
And often many other times I peek and then continue.
 
It is a mute, grave, ancient specter,
That seems to be badly accustomed to conversation . . .
Before that figure, ascetic and composed
A thousand times I open my mouth . . . and say nothing.
 
Only one time did I dare interrogate it:
Who are you (I asked it with a great shuddering)
Phantom whom I hate and whom I love?
 
Your brothers (it responded) the vain humans,
Call me God, for more than ten thousand years . . .
But I myself do not know what I call myself . . .
 

Stoicism

You who does not believe, nor love, nor await,
Spirit of eternal denial
Your breath frosted my heart
And destroyed the springs of my soul . . .
 
Traversing austere regions,
Full of night and deep darkness,
Like inside of a bad dream, I only hear a no,
That eternally echoes in between the spheres . . .
 
- Why do you breathe, why do you lament,
Cowardly heart? Uselessly you attempt
To oppose Chance in a complaint of egoism . . .
 
Let alone the timid people, let alone the dreamers
The vain hope, their vain ardors . . .
Mark you well how to envisage serenely the abyss!
 

Night

Night, my thoughts go to you,
When I watch and see, in the cruel light of day,
So much sterile struggle, so much agony,
And so many useless rough torments . . .
 
You, at least, stifle the lamentations,
That are exhaled from the tragic dungeon . . .
The eternal Evil, that roars and ravages,
Rests in you and forgets some moments . . .
 
Oh! Before you also fell asleep
For a time, and eternally, unalterably,
Falling upon the World, you forgot,
 
And he, the World, not fighting any longer nor seeing,
Fell asleep in your inviolable bosom,
Night without end, night of Not-being!