How far I was from Khayyam's firm conviction, to lull sorrow and the flow of life with the sacred juice An ascetic of the vine, who watches life pass almost indifferently, almost with the conviction of inevitable sorrow, it could not be me. Prosaic, poet only reluctantly, common and miserable as any other, I locked in its secret this certainty, locked it in the deepest part of my heart, so that outside an apparent dignity struggled, rebelling as a special thing, as an exception that does not want to accept the yoke of a precarious condition. But subjugated in the end, recognizing himself among the hosts of the oppressed, and sometimes among that of the oppressors, an individual looks at his reflection in the mirror surprised to be the one he sees. The image of himself is an impossibility. That day of estrangement is the day of his judgment, it is the day when everything changes for him, it is the day from which a naive hope, a slight nuance in a time that advances, nor a reverie that predisposes to longing, will no longer be allowed...
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