June 15, 2017
And, in All This Sordid Commotion, We Would Do Well Not to Forget That
“in this great world, we, children of the little world, Raise upon our earth the anthills of ants; Microscopic peoples — kings, soldiers and learned men — We follow one another in generations and believe ourselves marvellous; Flies of a day upon a little world measured out by the ell, In that boundlessness we spin, forgetting utterly That this whole world is a suspended instant, That behind it and before it darkness shows itself. As the dust plays within the empire of a sunbeam, A thousand violet threads that cease together with the beam, So, in the night of eternity, for ever deep, We have the instant, we have the beam, which holds a little longer yet… When it goes out, all perishes, like a shadow in the dark, For the chimerical universe is the dream of non-being…”
Yes, today is the day on which we ought to speak only of him, of Eminescu, a son of the instant who bears us into eternity!
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