From the section TRANSLATIONS

Sometimes, and it can last for hours,

I start to obliterate every conversation.

I hide the words persistently and, in unison with them,

displace myself

as their apparent creator. I renounce myself of

the most horrifying benediction. My feelings,

experiences and earthly adventures I, simply,

do not express: I am silent. After that episode

it happens that I cannot discern

the Brahmin way of life from the silence

in the public reading room. (That is, clearly, the consequence,

of my fetishised attitude to books.)

And, it seems, every silence possesses

different meanings. What consolation,

then, does my adoration of the mystics bring?

 

All the stories have been told, they say.

But, what if every silence has been exhausted,

what if there is nothing left to keep secret?

Sometimes, and it can last for hours,

I start to obliterate every conversation.

I hide the words persistently and, in unison with them,

displace myself

as their apparent creator. I renounce myself of

the most horrifying benediction. My feelings,

experiences and earthly adventures I, simply,

do not express: I am silent. After that episode

it happens that I cannot discern

the Brahmin way of life from the silence

in the public reading room. (That is, clearly, the consequence,

of my fetishised attitude to books.)

And, it seems, every silence possesses

different meanings. What consolation,

then, does my adoration of the mystics bring?

 

All the stories have been told, they say.

But, what if every silence has been exhausted,

what if there is nothing left to keep secret?

Sometimes, and it can last for hours,

I start to obliterate every conversation.

I hide the words persistently and, in unison with them,

displace myself

as their apparent creator. I renounce myself of

the most horrifying benediction. My feelings,

experiences and earthly adventures I, simply,

do not express: I am silent. After that episode

it happens that I cannot discern

the Brahmin way of life from the silence

in the public reading room. (That is, clearly, the consequence,

of my fetishised attitude to books.)

And, it seems, every silence possesses

different meanings. What consolation,

then, does my adoration of the mystics bring?

 

All the stories have been told, they say.

But, what if every silence has been exhausted,

what if there is nothing left to keep secret?

Sometimes, and it can last for hours,

I start to obliterate every conversation.

I hide the words persistently and, in unison with them,

displace myself

as their apparent creator. I renounce myself of

the most horrifying benediction. My feelings,

experiences and earthly adventures I, simply,

do not express: I am silent. After that episode

it happens that I cannot discern

the Brahmin way of life from the silence

in the public reading room. (That is, clearly, the consequence,

of my fetishised attitude to books.)

And, it seems, every silence possesses

different meanings. What consolation,

then, does my adoration of the mystics bring?

 

All the stories have been told, they say.

But, what if every silence has been exhausted,

what if there is nothing left to keep secret?

Sometimes, and it can last for hours,

I start to obliterate every conversation.

I hide the words persistently and, in unison with them,

displace myself

as their apparent creator. I renounce myself of

the most horrifying benediction. My feelings,

experiences and earthly adventures I, simply,

do not express: I am silent. After that episode

it happens that I cannot discern

the Brahmin way of life from the silence

in the public reading room. (That is, clearly, the consequence,

of my fetishised attitude to books.)

And, it seems, every silence possesses

different meanings. What consolation,

then, does my adoration of the mystics bring?

 

All the stories have been told, they say.

But, what if every silence has been exhausted,

what if there is nothing left to keep secret?

Sometimes, and it can last for hours,

I start to obliterate every conversation.

I hide the words persistently and, in unison with them,

displace myself

as their apparent creator. I renounce myself of

the most horrifying benediction. My feelings,

experiences and earthly adventures I, simply,

do not express: I am silent. After that episode

it happens that I cannot discern

the Brahmin way of life from the silence

in the public reading room. (That is, clearly, the consequence,

of my fetishised attitude to books.)

And, it seems, every silence possesses

different meanings. What consolation,

then, does my adoration of the mystics bring?

 

All the stories have been told, they say.

But, what if every silence has been exhausted,

what if there is nothing left to keep secret?

Sometimes, and it can last for hours,

I start to obliterate every conversation.

I hide the words persistently and, in unison with them,

displace myself

as their apparent creator. I renounce myself of

the most horrifying benediction. My feelings,

experiences and earthly adventures I, simply,

do not express: I am silent. After that episode

it happens that I cannot discern

the Brahmin way of life from the silence

in the public reading room. (That is, clearly, the consequence,

of my fetishised attitude to books.)

And, it seems, every silence possesses

different meanings. What consolation,

then, does my adoration of the mystics bring?

 

All the stories have been told, they say.

But, what if every silence has been exhausted,

what if there is nothing left to keep secret?

Sometimes, and it can last for hours,

I start to obliterate every conversation.

I hide the words persistently and, in unison with them,

displace myself

as their apparent creator. I renounce myself of

the most horrifying benediction. My feelings,

experiences and earthly adventures I, simply,

do not express: I am silent. After that episode

it happens that I cannot discern

the Brahmin way of life from the silence

in the public reading room. (That is, clearly, the consequence,

of my fetishised attitude to books.)

And, it seems, every silence possesses

different meanings. What consolation,

then, does my adoration of the mystics bring?

 

All the stories have been told, they say.

But, what if every silence has been exhausted,

what if there is nothing left to keep secret?

Sometimes, and it can last for hours,

I start to obliterate every conversation.

I hide the words persistently and, in unison with them,

displace myself

as their apparent creator. I renounce myself of

the most horrifying benediction. My feelings,

experiences and earthly adventures I, simply,

do not express: I am silent. After that episode

it happens that I cannot discern

the Brahmin way of life from the silence

in the public reading room. (That is, clearly, the consequence,

of my fetishised attitude to books.)

And, it seems, every silence possesses

different meanings. What consolation,

then, does my adoration of the mystics bring?

 

All the stories have been told, they say.

But, what if every silence has been exhausted,

what if there is nothing left to keep secret?

Sometimes, and it can last for hours,

I start to obliterate every conversation.

I hide the words persistently and, in unison with them,

displace myself

as their apparent creator. I renounce myself of

the most horrifying benediction. My feelings,

experiences and earthly adventures I, simply,

do not express: I am silent. After that episode

it happens that I cannot discern

the Brahmin way of life from the silence

in the public reading room. (That is, clearly, the consequence,

of my fetishised attitude to books.)

And, it seems, every silence possesses

different meanings. What consolation,

then, does my adoration of the mystics bring?

 

All the stories have been told, they say.

But, what if every silence has been exhausted,

what if there is nothing left to keep secret?

Sometimes, and it can last for hours,

I start to obliterate every conversation.

I hide the words persistently and, in unison with them,

displace myself

as their apparent creator. I renounce myself of

the most horrifying benediction. My feelings,

experiences and earthly adventures I, simply,

do not express: I am silent. After that episode

it happens that I cannot discern

the Brahmin way of life from the silence

in the public reading room. (That is, clearly, the consequence,

of my fetishised attitude to books.)

And, it seems, every silence possesses

different meanings. What consolation,

then, does my adoration of the mystics bring?

 

All the stories have been told, they say.

But, what if every silence has been exhausted,

what if there is nothing left to keep secret?