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Reiz es gribēju pakārt laupītāju, bet tas sāpēja viņa mātei. Un mātes bēdas sāpēja viņa māsai, un meitas sāpes sāpēja viņas dārzam: puķes novīta un ābeles nobirdināja negatavus augļus, jo meita ziedā aiz bēdām aizmirsa viņas apliet. Tad es piedevu laupītājam tāpēc, ka negribēju vairot sāpes pasaulē. ↗
Oh, field flower that has bloomed, Ah, somehow, please tell me: Why is it that people hurt each other And fight? Oh, flower that blooms with the asphalt, What can you see from there? Why is it that people Cannot forgive each other? In the summer, the rain passed And the blue reflected, Small, it rippled In front of me, Without saying a thing. What do you think When your friends wilt? With those leaves that do not carry words, How do you convey your love? The summer sun is clouded And the wind fluttered. I shall sing The proof that life once existed For those who do not have a name. ↗
...There,in his foul, stinking cellar, our offended, down-trodden and ridiculed mouse immerses himself in cold, venomous and, cheifly, everlasting spite. For forty years on end he will remember the offence, down to the smallest and most shameful detail, constantly adding more shameful details of his own, maliciously teasing and irritating himself with his own fantasies. He himself will be ashamed of his fantasies, but nevertheless he will remember all of them, weighing them up and inventing all sorts of things that never happend to him, on the pretext that they too could have happend and he'll forgive nothing. Probably he'll start taking his revenge, but somehow in fits and starts, pettily, anonymously, from behind the stove, believing neither in his right to take revenge, nor in the success of his revenge and knowing beforehand that he will suffer one hundred times more from every single one of his attempts at revenge than the object of his revenge, who, most likely, wont't give a damn. ↗
Unfortunately, I fall too fast, crash too hard, care too much, forgive too easy, wait too long, miss people I shouldn't, worry over nothing, over-think everything, and I am too complicated to be loved. All of the above. ↗
In marriage, insult arises again and again; and pain has to be not only endured, but consented to; and the amount of forgiveness that it necessitates is incredible and exhausting. ↗
