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| Although I've traveled through history,
I'm stubborn, more so than the brat whose father vainly explains that the moon is not a ball, stubborn and even if punished a hundred times I still seek the merciless truth the hundred and first time. That is my work. The broken-winged bird of happiness is thrashing in my hand; I have to make it fly, the broken-winged bird of happiness that has been taking off and dropping back for millennia. I've been thrashing too, -- worn down by centuries --; I pass out all my joys, and share with you people my miseries. Oh, the baroque balm of wondrous words, -- please, don't prolong my pain! Half truths: short-lived Novocain. Straight talk can work wonders. Kept on bread and water I say the same. That's why society keeps me around. The moon is a ball! And, if by some chance, I fail to catch it, I'll be dew, dew on a star, and Earth will seem brighter to the neighboring planets. And if the Sun calls me back, let people truthfully say about me: he did not associate with puddles, but let lilies take baths in him, come and gone the same way.
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