How sour the knowledge the travelers bring
The world’s monotonous and small; we see
ourselves today, tomorrow, yesterday,
an oasis of horror in sands of ennui!
Shall we move or rest? Rest, if you can rest;
move if you must. One runs, but others drop
and trick their vigilant antagonist.
Time is a runner who can never stop,
the Wandering Jew or Christ’s Apostles. Yet
nothing’s enough; no knife goes through the
of this retarius throwing out his net;
others can kill and never leave their cribs.
And even when Time’s heel is on our throat
we can still hope, still cry, “On, on, let’s go!”
Just as we once took passage on the boat
for China, shivering as we felt the blow,
so we now set our sails for the Dead Sea,
light-hearted as the youngest voyager.
If you look seaward, Traveler, you will see
a specter rise and hear it sing, “Stop, here,
and eat my lotus flowers, here’s where they’re
Here are the fabulous fruits; look, my boughs
eat yourself sick on knowledge. Here we hold
time in our hands, it never has to end.”