"Too proud to die; broken and blind he died
The darkest way, and did not turn away,
A cold kind man brave in his narrow pride
On that darkest day, Oh, forever may
He lie lightly, at last, on the last, crossed
Hill, under the grass, in love, and there grow
Young among the long flocks, and never lie lost
Or still all the numberless days of his death, ...
..."
«On n'écrit pas parce qu'on a quelque chose à dire
mais parce qu'on a envie de dire quelque chose.»
(E. M. Cioran)
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