My good Lysander,
I swear to thee by Cupid’s strongest bow,
By his best arrow with the golden head,
By the simplicity of Venus’ doves,
By that which knitteth souls and prospers loves,
And by that fire which burned the Carthage queen
When the false Trojan under sail was seen,
By all the vows that ever men have broke
(In number more than ever women spoke),
In that same place thou hast appointed me,
Tomorrow truly will I meet with thee.
Or, if there were a sympathy in choice,
War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it,
Making it momentany as a sound,
Swift as a shadow, short as any dream,
Brief as the lightning in the collied night,
That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and Earth,
And, ere a man hath power to say “Behold!”
The jaws of darkness do devour it up.
So quick bright things come to confusion.
“Patroclus.” Achilles did not slur my name, as people often did, running it together as if in a hurry to be rid of it. Instead, he rang each syllable: Pa-tro-clus.
Valetta limanında beklerken dilencilerin çatlak sesle söylediği şarkıları duydu. Şişe, yiyecek ve giysi aradıklarını duydu. Nesne aramanın kolay olduğunu düşündü. Uzaklarda bir şey aradığını ancak bulamadığını düşündü. İnsanlara göre bir şey yoktu orada.
Sayfa 161 - Can Sanat Yayınları — Mayıs, 2024·Kitabı okudu