WHEN I lingered among my hoarded treasure I felt like a worm that feeds in
the dark upon the fruit where it was born.
I leave this prison of decay.
I care not to haunt the mouldy stillness, for I go in search of everlasting
youth; I throw away all that is not one with my life nor as light as my
laughter.
I run through time and, O my heart, in your chariot dances the poet who
sings while he wanders.
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