the death

Do not say: die; say: to be born. Believe. We see what I see and what you see; One is the bad man that I am, that you are; We rush to pleasures, to whirlwinds, to feasts;
They try to forget the low, the end, the pitfall, The dark equality of evil and coffin; Although the smallest is the most prosperous; For all men are the sons of the same father;
They are the same tear and come out of the same eye. One lives, using one's days to fill oneself with pride; We walk, we run, we dream, we suffer, we lean, we fall, We go up. What is this dawn? It's the grave.
Where am I ? In death. Come ! An unknown wind throws you to the threshold of heaven. We tremble; One sees oneself naked, Impure, hideous, knotted with a thousand funeral knots Of his wrongs, of his shameful evils, of his darkness; And suddenly we hear someone in the infinite Who sings, and by someone we feel that we are blessed, Without seeing the hand from which falls to our wicked soul Love, and without knowing what is the voice who sings. One arrives man, mourning, ice cube, snow; we feel melt and live; and, full of ecstasy and azure, our whole being shudders with the strange defeat Of the monster who becomes in the light an angel .