From the diary of a contemporary
At wit’s end, I went to the doctor.
He pushed a pince-nez down on his nose:
“Nerves. Anxiety. Too soon to tell...
“So, I’ll prescribe
The blood pounded in my temples:
Guniyadi?! For questions,
For disbelief, for boredom?!
“Well, I’m not a philosopher.
So I went to a philosopher:
“Is there a purpose? A book or a plan?
A true school, a definite path?
Like an ox, I live in the dark.
Pacing in a colorful dressing gown,
Its hem dragging the floor, he said:
“Even Socrates himself is helpless here.
You, idiot! Look around you!”
“Thanks a lot....”
In the street, I saw
A woman with a contented look.
I quietly approached her:
“Hello, neighbor…” – “You insolent beggar!”
I went home in a daze,
My mind full of thoughts –
Each playing leap frog with the next:
First mockery, then insanity.
A nurse quietly entered the room.
There is still another philosopher:
“Why do you sit here like a wild animal?
Forget it, brother, just believe – without questions.”
“Gu-ni-ya-di? Who’s that?
A German saint?
To save your soul,
One saint is as good as the next...”