You die at forty-four years is young. Would you have lived a thousand years, I said the same thing: you had the youth in you, for you. What I call a young life is, absolute life, confused life of despair, love and joy. Despair, love, happiness. Which these three roses embedded in the heart to the young for him, in him, with him. I've always seen with three roses, concealed, oh so little below your true sweetness. Love was probably you since your birth, as her little sister, gaiety. The despair of the future with the burst of your sixteen, with the intuition that there is never a response to love, that love is like in this book of Emily Bronte: a madman who Short Mountain, a word torn by the wind, unheard. Men do not know this word answer that. Do not blame them too. Who knows how to respond to the wind that runs through the broom?
The more than alive - Christian Bobin
0 comments:
Post a Comment