| A still and peaceful bliss, a glorious resignation
|
| Any contradiction fades away
|
| Any philosophical problem becomes clear, or so it seems
|
| For a long time you haven’t been in control
|
| But you’re not afflicted by it anymore
|
| Mind absorbed in meditation of an ideal virtue, an ideal charity
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| And ideal genius
|
| You naively abandon yourself
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| To your triumphant spiritual orgy
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| When will we seek happiness?
|
| Hoarse and deep sighs leave your chest as though your former
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| Body couldn’t stand
|
| The desires and the quickness of your new soul
|
| A miasma mischievously clouds your brain soon you will laugh
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| At your madness
|
| But you can not dismiss it, for your will
|
| Has no more strength
|
| And can not rule your faculties anymore
|
| When will we seek happiness?
|
| Appaling marriage of a man to himself
|
| Because proportions of time and being are completely upset
|
| By multitude and intensity of feelings and ideas
|
| Appalling marriage of a man to himself
|
| Sublime dementia
|
| A human’s fanatic lust for any substance
|
| Which exalts his personality
|
| Proves his magnitude
|
| He always aims at exciting his expectations
|
| And at rising to the infinite
|
| Appalling marriage of a man to himself
|
| Because proportions of time and being are completely upset
|
| By multitude and intensity of feelings and ideas
|
| Appalling marriage of a man to himself
|
| Sublime dementia |