“Does time really exist, time the destroyer? When will it break down the castle into mere fragments? When will this heart which has always been in the service of the gods Be governed by the Creator, the Demiurge? Are we really so desperately fragile As Fate would wish to make us? Is childhood, which is so deep, so full of promise, Later stilled at its root? Oh, the spectre of perishability, How it infiltrates and passes through the innocently receptive, As if it were smoke! And we, we who are drifting, We still rank as a divine rite Amongst those lasting Powers.”
Book:Sonnets to Orpheus
