At times, and it may take hours,
I embark on eliminating any speech.
I keep on hiding words, and put myself,
their would-be creator, away
together with them. Thus I renounce
most tremendous goods. My own feelings,
experiences and earthly adventures simply,
stay unsaid: I am silent. After that incident
it happens that for an instant I cannot distinguish
the Brahman way of life from the silence
in the town library. (It is, certainly, a consequence of
my fetishistic attitude toward books.)
And each silence, it must be so, possesses
different meanings. Then, what consolation
my adoration of mystics offers?
People say all stories have been told.
But, what if every silence has been used up,
if there is nothing left to be silent about?
Translated by Uros Zekovic