You brought me to this age, I was young you didn't take my soul I didn't die young, I didn't die in the days when lilac curls embraced me from inside and outside There was a time I was eager to let my shadow wander on that clear page that lies in the vastness I didn't die, a youthful death remained hidden in me. If love had time, it should have waited for it Being young wasn't enough to make love Whereas love, what else could it be Life's excuse I didn't say Whatever came to the tip of my tongue Alas I was young I found my voice rusted with death. It was you who gave Adam the opportunity to make mistakes I didn't know how much of his luck fell to me I was young and why was I saying there was no margin for error in my life My tense body would stick thousands of twigs into the ground When it shouted I would add agility By grasping a dream to the sky Without getting lost in dreams By encompassing the cloud Without opening it I recognized the inside of the cloud Who is the son of Adam, where does sweating and asking questions drag a person? There is a fountain, its basin is filthy, my fate is in my own palm, watching my broken reflection. I was young, I would say what difference does it make, the murmur of the river can also be, the rustle of the branches can be tears, dewdrops, secret troubles or tuberculosis, I said what difference does it make, without knowing the difference I wanted. Oh, the resentment that makes me turn from the scent of lilacs to the shepherd's circle, from the bazaar to the rivers! Since I had set out to make the satrap in the deserts beg, the weather would turn bad, I would go with my face bowed, towards summer again, with the most rabid reptiles, I would continue on my way in the mornings. I was young, here I was, the one who got hurt by that slanted dance of the city, it would come to me, that soul-burning loneliness and I always looked at each other as if we were going to make love. If we could kiss just once, we would fade the world. Yet this place of exile, this jagged land, how fearful has it echoed in our secrets, there is no interval here to search for error, we descended into all the valleys, not a single hill was climbed, we would melt, as we embraced the roots of the scalpel, we would fly with the claws of the catching bird, we would purify ourselves, ah, it was an incident, we were saying, dignity too, if only there were no such things, it would be right, our effort not to perish like this, but we stained our own edges with blood, the world benefited from it, the world flourished: A burning, a burning design, here and on the other side, a nobody, we remained resentful every day. All these years, this resentful adventure, which has arrested me, now you have brought me to this age, I understood that you did not take my soul when I was young, I did not know, saying that even if it cried from the sky, the seed would fall from the heart, because since the great mistake that is immune to error, the place of supervision, how dare to think that it is a dewdrop, the essence that man is attached to man, is tears. Now don't make me say what to do again, Oh God, show me the water to carry, the wood left to break, this ineradicable crime of living is on me, let me know which water's lover I am, oh Lord, where is the hearth that should be smoking?