-to William Shakespeare-

Not even a warm spring breeze

has touched my hand. Whereas I

want a storm. A storm!

Is this desire?

Is this the limit of trembling?

Sins! Shame!

Is this youth? When... a lot is felt

but nothing can happen?

What if I grow old? Without even the touch of

a spring breeze on my hand?

What if one day wrinkles cover my face?

What if my vital spark goes out some day?

What if all my sources of hope dry up?

What if I cannot even feel forlorn?

What if men pass by without a glance for me?

What if I have no memories to give inner warmth?

Would my heart endure? If not even the breath of spring

touched my hand?

In thirty years from now? Thirty days? Tomorrow?

What if an evil miracle ages me

instantly?

Heavens! Now! Wrinkles!

Was this one here a moment ago? This? And this?

What if the spark in me dies immediately?

Before any memories can give me inner warmth.

Nor even the prospect of feeling forlorn.

Men who impress me will simply pass by.

At my graveside a spider will watch where I lie.

 

(Enter Hamlet.)