Chapter 13 13

Tin train stopped at a small station For a while there was no movement. Doors slam shut, paving stones underfoot, Someone said goodbye. A glove fell, and the shadows darkened. The door slammed again, louder, The tin train starts slowly, It was as if the nineteenth century had disappeared into the mist. Kierkegaard said of Hegel thus: He reminds one of a man built a huge castle by himself, but lived In the warehouse adjacent to this building. By the same token, thought, dwelling in the most common area of ​​the brain, those promised to us The land of glory is covered cobwebs, because we can only enjoy

The narrow cell of the prison, the song of the prisoners, The customs officer's good mood, the old policeman's fist.We live in aspiration.dreaming, The lock and bolt are open.Everyone can be under the huge appearance Find refuge for all weak and weak.God It is the smallest poppy in the world, It's all great on the inside. My guru is not perfect. They are not Goethe, only when the distant volcanoes moan Sleepless nights, nor Horace, with gods and altar boys language writing.my master Ask for my opinion.from a pile of woolen fabric The coat slipped off quickly covered their dreams, at dawn, when

The cool wind asks the morning birds, My master whispered. I will hear their broken words. happy moments suddenly A black hood, open Only for eyes, mouth, tongue, sorrow.More sorrow. The living send off their fleeting day Those days are like negatives, an exposure It never prints. The living live, totally indifferent, indifferent, Shame on the dead. They laughed sadly: children, We were, exactly like you. Over our heads the acacias once bloomed In the acacia grove, the nightingale also sang. The hats are innocent and lovely, with a soft light smearing their outlines.A girl is working.But where is the stream?Where is the woods?Where is the coquettish laughter of Fairy Lin Ze?This hungry world will one day invade this peaceful room.Now it satisfies itself with the words proclaimed by these messengers:

I am ocher.i am brown.I am the color of astonishment, like gray.Ships sink in me.I'm something blue, I'm cool, I can be ruthless.I am still the color of death, I am patient.I am purple (you don't see me much), for I represent great victories and processions. I am green, I am gentle, I live in well water and birch leaves.That light-fingered girl will not hear me, for she too is mortal.She thought about the coming Sunday and her date with the butcher's son, with his rough lips and his big blood-stained hands.