When I was a boy my grandfather died, and he was a sculptor.
He was also a very kind man who had a lot of love to give the world, and he helped clean up the slum in our town; and he made toys for us and he did a million things in his lifetime; he was always busy with his hands.
And when he died, I suddenly realized I wasn't crying for him at all, but for the things he did.
I cried because he would never do them again, he would never carve another piece of wood or help us raise doves and pigeons in the back yard or play the violin the way he did, or tell us jokes the way he did.
He was part of us and when he died, all the actions stopped dead and there was no one to do them just the way he did.
He was individual.
He was an important man.
I've never gotten over his death.
Often I think, what wonderful carvings never came to birth because he died.
How many jokes are missing from the world, and how many homing pigeons untouched by his hands.
He shaped the world.
He did things to the world.
The world was bankrupted of ten million fine actions the night he passed on.
Forests and deserts
Rivers, blue seas
Mountains and valleys
Nothing here stays
While we think we witness
We are part of the scene
This never ending story
Where will it lead to?
The earth is our mother
She gives and she takes
But she is also a part
A part of the tale.
We're part of a story, part of a tale
And sometimes insane
No one remembers
How it began.
Las du triste hôpital, et de l’encens fétide
Qui monte en la blancheur banale des rideaux
Vers le grand crucifix ennuyé du mur vide,
Le moribond sournois y redresse un vieux dos,
Se traîne et va, moins pour chauffer sa pourriture
Que pour voir du soleil sur les pierres, coller
Les poils blancs et les os de la maigre figure
Aux fenêtres qu’un beau rayon clair veut hâler.
Et la bouche, fiévreuse et d’azur bleu vorace,
Telle, jeune, elle alla respirer son trésor,
Une peau virginale et de jadis! encrasse
D’un long baiser amer les tièdes carreaux d’or.
Ivre, il vit, oubliant l’horreur des saintes huiles,
Les tisanes, l’horloge et le lit infligé,
La toux ; et quand le soir saigne parmi les tuiles
Son œil, à l’horizon de lumière gorgé,
Voit des galères d’or, belles comme des cygnes,
Sur un fleuve de pourpre et de parfums dormir
En berçant l’éclair fauve et riche de leurs lignes
Dans un grand nonchaloir chargé de souvenir!