After all this long, passionate life
I shall be nameless person in a book,
A curve in the picture,
A thought to an appeased old man:
»She was, of all of them,
the woman who loved me best.«
This will be an affected, artificial sentence.
The wearied heart will no longer sense it
And along the winding paths of memory,
Neither the lake
Nor the woman's figure beside it will exist.
All will be erased.
After a long, passionate life.