Erised

7 02 2019

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.

Werbeanzeigen