A hazard of death
prevents us from belief. Captive
in some inferior being
so effectively lost.
The day
forms their prison.
Our own past
a labour in vain. The past
hidden beyond the realm of intellect.
Combray
one day in winter
mother offered tea and plump
'petites madeleines'.
To my lips a spoonful
of tea soaked cake. A shudder
an exquisite pleasure invaded my senses
with no suggestion
of origin. At once
the vicissitudes of life
became indifferent to me.
Love filling me with a precious essence.
I had ceased to feel mediocre
accidental mortal.
All-powerful joy I was conscious
transcended.
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