Empty

The weather is clear and the sky is bright, and the sun's disk is burning intensely, and the earth is trembling so it produces beautiful plants, and the trees shake from their shiny green leaves, and the warm air is bubbling and emanating into the bodies leaving a gentle, delicious trace in them. And all of that has no value to me and no effect on my soul, for I feel that life is dark and gloomy, and that this space, despite its vastness and the opening between its edges, is narrower in my eyes than the scale of the noose, and the view of the world has become something strange I do not know and have no familiarity with. So I keep moving from place to place, fleeing from the garden to the house, and from the house to the garden, as if I am searching for something. And I search only for myself, which I have lost, and I keep calling for it. If fatigue overtakes me, I retreat to the linden trees.