I Know Now: I Do Not Hope

A Slave's Soul Has No Worth, My Brothers; It Lacks Strength To Tread On This Great Earth With Gallantry And Freedom. I Pity The Poor Slaves, They're Nought But Airy Mist, A Light Breeze Scatters Them, A Fragrance Knocks Them Down; It's Only Just They Crawl On The Earth On Hands And Knees. Today I'll Write A Hymn To God And Pray For This Great Grace.

When Shall I At Last Retire Into Solitude Alone, Without Companions, Without Joy And Without Sorrow, With Only The Sacred Certainty That All Is A Dream? When, In My Rags—without Desires—shall I Retire Contented Into The Mountains? When, Seeing That My Body Is Merely Sickness And Crime, Age And Death, Shall I—free, Fearless, And Blissful—retire To The Forest? When? When, Oh When?

Freedom Was My First Great Desire. The Second, Which Remains Hidden Within Me To This Day, Tormenting Me, Was The Desire For Sanctity. Hero Together With Saint: Such Is Mankind's Supreme Model.

Whoever Climbed The Lord's Mountain Had To Possess Clean Hands And An Innocent Heart; Otherwise The Summit Would Kill Him. Today The Doorway Is Deserted. Soiled Hands And Sinful Hearts Are Able To Pass By Without Fear, For The Summit Kills No Longer.

Beauty Is Merciless. You Do Not Look At It, It Looks At You And Does Not Forgive.