You liked your scrolls ? – Here they are. The manuscript of your book ? – Here it is. Your wine and figs ? – Here they are. The portrait of your wife ? – Here it is. Your garden and your house ? – Here they are. The box you never opened ? – Here it is.
You are all here, this is all of you. Your soul would have nothing to add.
Before I went, I had a dream. The messenger squeezed through from the other world. It was painful to look at him, but he was in pain, too. His flesh pressed him hard.
He groaned: "You shouldn't go now. Child, the time has not come yet. You should stay and know this leaden light."
Stranger, reading these lines, how could I play and grow where an angel wriggles and cries ?
If you love me, she asked, jump down from the rock. I did, and Eros preserved me alive. Yet I froze like a dog in the sea, and soon died.
I am in the cold eternity, and love I never will - Thanatos rescued me from a greater chill.
My son loved music and I put near him a flute wrapped in a strip of silk, to keep the dirt from it.
When the winds don't blow, at the end of day, I believe I know that I hear him play.
Her mother wanted her so badly that she would pester me almost every night, pounding doggedly on the door, weeping under the fig tree.
I knew that sooner or later I would have to let her go. When she fell ill last winter, I knew at once what I know.
Come to me holding the blades of grass, Come to me at once. Enter my room in your silken dress, give me a caress.
The whole planet is pressing you now. I know how desperately you want to come from your crowded home.
If I wanted to hug you, I would have to hug both the day and the night, the mountain on the left, and the waterfall on the right.
I would have to retain you once and for all. Here, between the mountain and the waterfall.
I am sitting at the table, writing my own epitaph. The parchment is pressed by a piece of marble. There is wine, a peach cut in half.
Shall I say that I was blessed with a long life, for I loved the mist in the mountains, the bird in the nest more than my soul, which was creeping low ? That the peach is whole ?
The dead would already know, and the living would not listen.