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Why is it that my words begin to flag When hitherto they have flowed so rapidly That I could not even stop to choose among them? But you have guessed it--- I am drawing towards the end of my dream, And my words falter because never again, No, never again shall I re-live my dream And all its happiness and emotions and sensations. For it is all hopeless --- she does not love me, And there is the world and what it says. I have deceived myself---she does not love me, And all I have written with so much faith and ardour Never happened and never will happen. If I showed such delusions about ordinary life They would shut me up in a mad-house, For I have lost the sense of the thin boundary Between what is and is not, Between the real and the ideal, The true and the imaginary. She does not love me. Suppose you were a rather clumsy glass-maker And one day a miracle happened. From your breath grew a miraculous slender glass bowl More exquisite than any Venetian glass. And just as you were marveling at its beauty And thinking how your whole life would be changed, Some invisible hand poured in the traditional poison So that in a flash the miraculous cup collapsed And crumbled to a little dust in your hand... "She does not love me" is the poison...