The days of our future stand before us
like a row of little lighted candles-
golden, warm, and lively little candles.
The days gone by remain behind us,
a mournful line of burnt-out candles;
the nearest ones are still smoking,
cold candles, melted and burnt.
I do not want to look at them; their form saddens me,
and it saddens me to recall their first light.
I look ahead at my lighted candles.
I do not want to turn back, lest I see and shudder-
how quickly the somber line lengthens,
how quickly the burnt-out candles multiply.