I, my own prisoner, say so:
life is not the springtime clad in light green velvet,
or a caress that one seldom receives,
life is not a resolve to go
or two white arms that hold one back.
Life is the narrow ring that holds us captive,
the invisible circle we never cross,
life is nearby happiness that passes us by,
and the thousand steps we cannot bring ourselves to take.
Life is to despise oneself
and to lie motionless on the bottom of a well
and to know that the sun is shining up there
and golden birds are flying through the air
and the days swift as arrows are shooting by.
Life is to wave a short farewell and go home and sleep . .
Life is to be a foreigner to oneself
and a new mask for every other person who comes.
Life is to be careless with one's own happiness
and to push away the unique moment,
life is to think oneself weak and not to dare.
Found this poem by Edith in English. (Translation by David McDuff.) I love her poetry, especially this one. Treasuring life...