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Now I am quietly waiting for

the catastrophe of my personality

to seem beautiful again.

So that now I am become death, the destroyer of worlds. 

And thus now through death may I truly live again.

It may be the coldest day of

the year, what does he think of

that? I mean, what do I? And if I do,

perhaps I am myself again.

For if I am not for myself, then who will be for me? And if I am only for myself, then what am I? And if not now, when? 

And if perhaps I am for Man then I will finally Be.

Words from Hillel, O’Hara, Field, Oppenheimer (Vedic translation)