Small farewells are rolling
before the big ones like balls…
If only we lived in advance.
If only we knew everything in the beginning,
we probably would not need the Gods.
Boiling and foaming will not burn up,
will not end
this everlasting live sea—Sorrow.
I loved, I am loving.
The Gods do what they want.
Life is instant like a gunshot.
Death is nearby like air.
I tell you there will be no cure for passion.
The yokes of the Earth are not balanced.
The lives of any of us do not hold much meaning.
There is nonetheless that eternal, silent,
unfathomable meaning.
No, my poem will not help me hold to life.
It will not sum it up.
This is about someone else who is being killed.
But I know that perhaps one day
it might delay the ending.
And perhaps someday
it will decide to help someone else.
The quiet voice of my despair.
The sweet voice of my despair.

The small farewells are rolling
before the great ones like balls.
I am sending you a few symbols
to discern the Love,
to help you survive the Night.