Am I then really all that which other men tell of, or am I only what I know of myself, restless and longing and sick, like a bird in a cage, struggling for breath, as though
hands were compressing my throat, yearning for
colors, for flowers, for the voices of birds, thirsting for words of kindness, for neighborliness, trembling with anger at despotisms and petty humiliation, tossing in expectation of great events, powerlessly trembling for friends at an infinite distance, weary and empty at
praying, at thinking, at making, faint and ready to say farewell to it all.
When the dying Thisbe
prayed to the gods that the tree would «always have fruit of a dark and mournful hue, to make men remember the blood we two have shed,» the gods granted her wish and changed the white mulberry into the black mulberry, which stains the
hands a reddish
color.