You Carry the World on Your Shoulders

A time comes when you stop saying: my God.

A time of absolute purification.

A time when you stop saying: my love.

Because love proved to be useless.

And your eyes don't cry.

And your hands weave only rough work.

And your heart has withered.

Women knock on your door in vain, you won't open.

You're all alone, the light is out, but in the darkness your eyes shine enormous.

You're certainty itself, you can no longer suffer.

And you expect nothing from your friends.

So what if you're getting old? What's old age? You carry the world on your shoulders, and it weighs no more than a child's hand.

Wars, famines, squabbles inside buildings prove only that life goes on and many people have yet to free themselves.

Some (the squeamish) find the spectacle barbaric and would prefer to die.

A time has come when dying serves no purpose.

A time has come when life is an order.

Life, just life, without mystification.