IT IS ABOUT THOSE SECRETS
My soul, come, if only for a few moments,Come out of the nebula which surrounds you; be bare,—You with whom I am intimate yet unacquainted,You with whom all of my life I have lived.—But you? Where did you dwell before?And where will you dwell after?Yes, my soul, there is the difficult part,—it is about those secrets.You are sometimes careless while I sleep,And so I go with you among your reminiscences.It is about those secrets,—they trouble me.There i1s no explaining them: when I am awake you are dumb on the subject.I request you, my soul, either be frank with me,Freely telling me all, or put a padlock on the doorOf that place where you keep your secrets.
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