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THE SOURCE When I wandered in Hell of which I do not sing Because curses have first glued my lips Like ugly flies mad from the heat And also because each time I try - I yawn; When wandering I passed a colonnade of boredom Long and straight - also hallways of whims And a sandy cemetery of glimmering giants Moving drowsily beneath cobbled stones; When my footsteps measured ante-chambers Of silly-nerves which constantly try on clothes And at wedding-time are never ready ! . . . When I crossed thresholds of misery and portals of deceit And was now passing insolent labyrinths of crime Plastered everywhere with sentences of the Court, I found myself on a spot where beneath my foot the lava Cooled - so now I walked in air And season and light that were truly Godless ! ... - Like wheatfields charred by volcanoes Or seas arrested and stinking, Sea waves standing, gazing at each other, Sphinx-like, Amazed at the strange habit of the deep, - While above, penguins With open throats, parching of thirst, And a couple of red stars which waning Rush into the void... ...there I went (unbelievably - without rest!..., I went there - where ?... doubting... when a tiny plant Pale and like one clumsily embroidered Whispered to me: "...There is a spring..." - and further in a ravine I felt something like dampness. From that side too A bitter laugh and a stifled rustle reached me And I perceived a Man with hands on his head As when one shifts all strength Into one's feet - he was stamping on the spring's blue vein, As though a ribbon which had entwined his sandal Lay soiled in the dust where his foot had pressed it. The man's laugh was wild - his accent strange : Resembling the drum-beat following a coffin, Echoing with sarcasm, hoarse with hate : "See how the Creation-Spirit cleans my shoes!..." |