Stefan Zweig, 1881–1942

Stefan Zweig, come back, come back. Do not be afraid. Do not look the other way, but on all sides. Come take the road with me into those dark woods where eerie sounds of nature coalesce, where fledglings kiss you on the head and talk to you. Come fly with me, come be my friend in those darkest hours, in those darkest woods where even dreams are not permitted, but they move in nonetheless, because their darkest hours share with yours and mine to light the light, where our angels lead us on with whisperings . . . and they look on. Stefan, it’s safe now. Come hold my hand. We circle home. The light is in the window. The dance is picking up. The dance is done. Can’t you feel it now? Can’t you . . . can’t you . . . ?