chère douce Paris, je reviendrai un jour
We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make and end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from.
For last words belong to last years language
And next years words await another voice.
But the passage now presents no hindrance
To the spirit unappeased and peregrine.
Between two worlds become much like each other.
So i find words i never thought to speak.
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
their bad advice—
though the whole house began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
‘Mend my life!’
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations—
through their melancholy
was terrible.It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
though the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice,
which you slowly
recognised as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do–determined to save
the only life you could save.