At least let me now deceive myself with illusions so as not to feel my empty life. And yet I came so close so many times. And yet how paralyzed I wa… - Konstantinos P. Cavafy

The Tomb of Lanes Marcus, the Lanes whom you loved is not here
in this tomb where you visit and weep for hours.
The Lanes whom you loved is nearer, Marcus,
when you close yourself in your room and gaze on his portrait;
that image preserved all that was worthy in him;
that image preserved all that you loved. Do you remember, Marcus, when you brought
from the proconsul’s palace the famous painter from Cyrene,
and as soon as he laid eyes on your friend,
he tried to persuade you with his artist’s cunning
that he should draw him, without question, as Hyacinth
(that way the portrait would garner more fame)? But your Lanes didn’t put his beauty on loan like that;
firmly opposing the man, he demanded to be portrayed
not as Hyacinth, nor as anyone else,
but as Lanes, son of Rhametichus, an Alexandrian.

"Without compunction, pity or shame,
they've built towering walls around me.

Desperate, I sit and think one thing:
alone here this fate confounds me.

For there were many things I'd hoped to do out there.
With all the construction, how was I not aware?

Yet the crack and clang of hammers I never once heard.
Imperceptibly they've confined me from the outside world.

("Walls")"

وإن لم تستطع تشكيل حياتك كما تريد
فحاول -على الأقل- بقدر ما تستطيع
ألا تبتذلها
بالاحتكاك الزائد بالعالم
بالحركة والكلام الزائد
حاول ألا تبتذلها بجرجرتها هنا وهناك
بالطواف بها وتعريضها -كثيرًا- للسخافة اليومية
للأحداث والحفلات الاجتماعية
إلى أن تُصبح مثل عبٍ مُضجر