I force it, I push it from my within toward my without. Only words spring forth, and I hear them— there is only man, nothing else. I search within myself for the meaning of my existence; I search my heart— only man dwells there, without answers, nothing else remains. Then— I forget the man. In that instant I rescue from my memories my forgotten soul. It is only then that my heart resurrects, suddenly, from its languid slumber. Now yes—my soul inhabits me! Now it is she who drives the feeling from my within toward my without. Now, yes— poetry invents itself, for now the man is silent, and at last— the poet speaks.
