WHEN I LINGERED among my hoarded treasure I felt like a worm that feeds in the dark upon the fruit where it was born. I leave this prison of decay. I care not to haunt the mouldy stillness, for I go in search of ever-lasting youth; I throw away all that is not one with my life nor as light as my laughter. I run through time and, O my heart, in your chariot dances the poet who sings while he wanders.
DO NOT CALL him to thy house, the dreamer, who walks alone by thy path in the night. His words are those of a strange land, and strange is the melody played by him on his one-stringed lute. There is no need for thee to spread a seat for him; he will depart before day-break. For in the feast of freedom he is asked to sing the praise of the new-born light.