I Was Ill Before I Fell Ill.

I Say One Thing, You Write Another, And Those Who Read You Understand Still Something Else! I Say: Cross, Death, Kingdom Of Heaven, God...and What Do You Understand? Each Of You Attaches His Own Suffering, Interests And Desires To Each Of These Sacred Words, And My Words Disappear, My Soul Is Lost. I Can't Stand It Any Longer!

You Have Your Brush, You Have Your Colors, You Paint The Paradise, Then In You Go.

When An Almond Tree Became Covered With Blossoms In The Heart Of Winter, All The Trees Around It Began To Jeer. 'what Vanity,' They Screamed, 'what Insolence! Just Think, It Believes It Can Bring Spring In This Way!' The Flowers Of The Almond Tree Blushed For Shame. 'forgive Me, My Sisters,' Said The Tree. 'i Swear I Did Not Want To Blossom, But Suddenly I Felt A Warm Springtime Breeze In My Heart.

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?

My Soul Comes From Better Worlds And I Have An Incurable Homesickness Of The Stars.