Albert Cohen (1895 – 1981)
Greek-born Jewish Swiss novelist who wrote in French.
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She answers no more, the one who used to answer always.
In my sleep, which is the song of the tombs, I have just seen her again, as beautiful as in her youth.
With her alone I could be far away from everyone.
Only with her I was not alone, now I am alone with everyone.
Human friends, friends in hardship and in life, this is our pure love, love of mother and son.
Brothers, my human brothers, force me to believe in eternal life.
She does not talk anymore, the one who used to talk so pleasantly.
Go away, image of my living mother, full of life, as I saw her in France for the last time. Go away! My mother's ghost.
In my solitude I sing to myself a sweet lullaby, as sweet as my mother used to sing to me.
Alone dwells every man and everyone mocks everyone else, and a deserted island is our pain.
My true single consolation is that she is not present to see me in my agony of her death.
Never again I would know her slow kisses which are hardly felt. Never again the ringing mourning bells, songs of the dead that we loved.
I say to myself that her small hands are no more worm, and that I would never again carry them soft to my front.
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