I SAW THE beasts expelled from my mother's heart. There is no difference between her sadness and my flesh.

So this is life? I don't know. I know that it extinguishes itself like ripples in water. So what to do, then, faltering between serenity and anguish? I don't know. I rest

in the cold ignorance.

There is a music in me, this is certain, and still I wonder what it means, this pleasure without hope. There is music before the abyss, yes, and, beyond, again the bell of the snow and, still, my avid ear against the cauldron of sorrows, but

what does it mean, at last,

this pleasure without hope?

I have already spoken of the one who keeps watch in me while I'm asleep, the stranger hidden in my memory. Will he too die?

I don't know. He desperately

lacks importance.