Neither music, fame, nor wealth, not even poetry itself, could provide consolation for life’s brevity, or the fact that King Lear is a mere eighty pages long and comes to an end, and for the thought that one might suffer greatly on account of a rebellious child.
My love for you is what’s magnificent, but I, you, and the others, most likely, are ordinary people.
My poem goes beyond poetry because you exist beyond the realm of women.
And so it has taken me all of sixty years to understand that water is the finest drink, and bread the most delicious food, and that art is worthless unless it plants a measure of splendor in people’s hearts.
After we die, and the weary heart has lowered its final eyelid on all that’ve done, and on all that we’ve longed for, and all that we’ve dreamt of, all we’ve desired or felt, hate will be the first things to putrefy within us.