That the stars are adamanteveryone understands—but I won’t give up seeking joy on each blue waveor peace below every gray stone.If happiness never comes, what is a life?A lily withers in the sandand if its nature has failed? The tidewashes the beach at night.What is the fly looking for on the spider’s web?What does a dayfly make of its hours?(Two wings creased over a hollow body.)
Black will never turn to white—yet the perfume of our struggle lingersas each morning fresh flowersspring up from hell.
The day will comewhen the earth is emptied, the skies collapseand all goes still—when nothing remains but the dayflyfolded in a leaf.But no one knows it.