Enough. I send them out of the house, I don't want to wait until their toes are cold. Unhampered by their unclear clamour. I want to hear the humming of the sun or that of my heart, that treacherous sponge that hardens.
Go now, verses, on your light feet, you have not trodden hard on the old earth where the graves laugh when they see their guests, the one corpse stacked on top of the other. Go now and stagger to her whom I do not know.
In spring they lie flat at the first warmth, they ruin my summer and in autumn they smell of women.
My verses don't screw classically, they babble commonly and bluster far too nobly. In winter their lips leap.
My verses stand gawping a bit. I never get used to this. They've lived here long enough.
God gives us intelligence to uncover the wonders of nature. Without the gift, nothing is possible.
The search for the truth is the most important work in the whole world, and the most dangerous.
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