It is the noblest end we pin hope on.
Blind hope our spirit with strength supplies.
Our sick hope on light and pleasure wishes to lie.
But inevitably to the shoreless sea blindness creeps.
Blindness and the offspring of his to nothingness cheerfully walk.
I wander and lose my way in the labyrinth of such a question.
Why do we in the theater of dying life our deprived egos plant?
The beginning was so bitter and to it we unwillingly drag ourselves.
« return.