From my youth, a whirlwind of pleasure, longing, and anxiety, I saw death settling in; and I would sit by the lake for hours, thinking how beautifully sorrows and hopes would fade into the water. And yet!

When the time came and the black disease took hold of me, I mourned those youths, those days - flowers cut so prematurely; and late at night, I would sit up in bed, light the lamp, and compose something from my murky lament for the spirit that vanishes into the silent darkness - a mournful song for my unattainable self.