Morning

Morning

Hadn’t
I once a youth that was lovely, heroic, fabulous– something to write
down on pages of gold?… I was too lucky! Through what crime, by what
fault did I deserve my present weakness? You who imagine that animals
sob with sorrow, that the sick despair, that the dead have bad dreams,
try now to relate my fall and my sleep. I can explain myself no better
than the beggar wth his endless Aves and Pater Nosters. I no longer
know how to talk!

And yet, today, I think I have finished this account of my Hell. And
it was Hell; the old one, whose gates were opened by the Son of Man.
From the same desert, toward the same dark sky, my tired eyes forever
open on the silver star, forever; but the three wise men never stir,
the Kings of life, the heart, the soul, the mind. When will we go, over
mountains and shores, to hail the birth of new labor, new wisdom, the
flight of tyrants and demons, the end of superstition, to be the first
to adore… Christmas on earth! The song of the heavens, the marching
of nations! We are slaves; let us not curse life!