Forbidden Fruit

With trite words on the emptiness of paper I write: "I love you". Without, as in times before, asking myself "what is love"? The neighbors are asleep there is no one around me I am in a sort of blissful mood an illusion has taken hold of me as if I were free! Curse you, devil of wakefulness! Curse the order of all that remains! But tonight there is no sign of permanence here: from between the tiles comes the sound of a mouse a mouse that is digging a tunnel. from the kitchen faucet a swift waterfall is flowing and on the flame, inside the kettle, a nightingale is singing. But until morning only a breath remains one hour of the hidden freedom of being oneself. one hour of burning "being with oneself". Tell me truly, do you know anyone who in their fancies and dreams has never eaten the forbidden fruit or under the pillows of night has never hidden a corner of the heart? Like you, like a hundred thousand other people I, hand in hand with the devil, on the face of a clock without hands once more write the sentence that sentence once more. When "day" arrives with its flimsy, rotten patches with a hundred thousand hidden hearts under the damp pillows, then, then the crossed-out scraps of paper, quick and trembling, into the stream behind my courtyard wall I will throw. But look... until then while there is still time once more again once more again...