All of my recent self… these words, these worlds, these feelings,
all of my joys, my longings, and my strives,
all of these shiny trifles that comprised my settled life, –
„so are they all! all honourable…“ things…
all this that seemed to stay, to everlast,
bled white with ink, bleached out and withered.
The spirals of my tired spine unweaving:
If everything goes, why, then my life has passed.
And everything I dreamt I felt or had
Was neither carved in stone nor sealed by action,
`t was never mine, not ever, since its inception,
´t was just a mere illusion in the Mirror of Erised.