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Morning

 

Had I not once a youth lovely, heroic, fabulous, to write on leaves of gold—too lucky! By what crime, by what error, have I merited my current weakness? You who pretend that animals give sobs of grief, that the ill despair, that the dead dream badly, try to recount my fall and my sleep. Me, I can no more explain myself than the beggar with his continual Pater and Ave Maria. I cannot speak any more!

Nevertheless, today, I think I have finished the relation of my hell. It was indeed hell, the ancient, the one of which the son of man opened the doors.

From the same desert, in the same night, always my weary eyes awaken to the star of silver, always, without there being moved the Kings of life, the three magi, the heart, the soul, the spirit. When shall we go, beyond strands and mountains, to greet the birth of new work, new wisdom, the flight of tyrants and of demons, the end of superstition, to adore—the first ones!—Christmas on Earth!

The song of the heavens, the march of peoples! Slaves, let us not curse life.