Without any knowledge of my error,
the years of so wasted a life
(their terrible wound being incurable)
were not years, but centuries of torment.
I lived by dying; oh mad thought!
How can you choose to live, since you are the murderer
of your own brief life,
an inner Hydra of blind understanding?
Live for dying; and if you trust
in the life you are leading, count your hurts,
the external cause of your logical persistence.
See that when you choose disillusion,
you will be short of years and days,
and you will have days and years too many.