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Morning
MORNING

Didn't I at one time have a lovely boyhood--heroic, fabulous, worth
writing about on golden sheets--worse luck!  Through what crime,
through what mistake did I deserve my current weakness?  Those of you
who pretend that animals sob with grief, that sick people despair,
that the dead have bad dreams, please try to explain my fall and my
sleep.  As for me, I can no more make you see my point than the 
beggar with his endless Our Father's and Hail Mary's.  I don't know
how to talk any more!

Yet, today, I think I'm all through talking about my hell.  It was
really hell.  The old hell, the one whose doors were thrown open by
the Son of Man.

From the same desert, towards the same night, my tired eyes always
wake up to the silver star, always, without ever managing to move
the Kings of life, the three magi--the heart, the soul, the mind. 
When are we going to take off, past the shores and the mountains, to
greet the new task, the new wisdom, the defeat of tyrants and devils,
the end of superstition--to worship--the first to do so!  Christmas
on this earth!

The music of the spheres, the march of peoples!  Slaves, let's not
curse this life.