The hammer of life,
On my shoulders hardly
Is splintering stones,
Being tormenting
And rude,
While month
Yet not passed over.
When I myself,
I with tales amused...
Tell me, did those
Flowers fade,
Which were kissed
With such love?
Or the dreams
Have indeed overtaken
Them and thus
Have forever out flied?
Those flowers...
I don't know whether
I love you or not...
Aureole
Is both shining and not -
It is you and not you...
That the hammer of life
Is so hard, so poignant.
There's no spark
Under it... No beauty...
But it seems that a month
Isn't yet over...
1901
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