And from that time on I bathed in the Poem Of the Sea, star-infused and churned into milk, Devouring the green azures; where, entranced in pallid flotsam, A dreaming drowned man sometimes goes down.

My wisdom is as spurned as chaos. What is my nothingness, compared to the amazement that awaits you?

In the great glasshouses streaming with condensation, the children in mourning-dress beheld marvels.

I turned silences and nights into words. What was unutterable, I wrote down. I made the whirling world stand still.

Idle youth, enslaved to everything; by being too sensitive I have wasted my life.

What a life! True life is elsewhere. We are not in the world.