THE LIMITS OF THE PROPORTIONS

With clenched, abscessed, snarling teeth, like a long-suffering one, who has settled for life, perhaps for pain forever, in search of the riddle to be known, I have been chasing and chasing the riddle hidden in the infinite, moving through the infinite. And because the sincere, glowing weight of passion binds me and holds me in curious hunger, I search for the secret snail's trails of the knowable proportion.

The proportions: the true, the secret, perhaps even reversible, which in the inner wild of the soul trembles towards me incessantly visible and readable, and there flickers with its fire-glowing lights behind the solidified brow of reason; in the crenulated tunnels of my brain it still slumbers silently, - but it can always know its mission-work, if it must confess! - My fate's bounded, half-weathered shrouds are stretched by the daylight melancholy clash Of invisible depths. My transparent, crystal-clear eyes, who never tires to look, can see the hidden one-thing: the familiar, lost, childish hone, where one can always be a little oneself!

My heart is full of intent, yet unseen, and can only hum so quietly that what can be maintained will do without it, though not entirely without it. The inward secrets of our proportion: a whole, superfluous, wounded doubt. It can no longer be broken to pieces, for it still bleeds like a reddening twilight flame. Yet millions of tiny tears slip from the pearly pools of the eyes to the more compassionate hearts, where perhaps the soul too will find harmony and understanding.

Our exiled ancestral harmony is hardest to find again, when we must always be biroch against the rules of the certain impossible.