30 我提出唯一的请求 白玫瑰

I cannot write any more… my head feels so dulled… my limbs hurt, I am feverish. I
think I shall have to lie down. Perhaps it will soon be over, perhaps fate has been kind
to me for once, and I shall not have to see them take my child away… I cannot write
any more. Goodbye, beloved, goodbye, and thank you… it was good as it was in spite
of everything… I will thank you for that until my last breath. I am at ease: I have told
you everything, and now you know—or no, you will only guess—how much I loved
you, and you will not feel that love is any burden on you. You will not miss me—that
consoles me. Nothing in your happy, delightful life will change—I am doing you no
harm with my death, and that comforts me, my beloved.
But who… who will always send you white roses on your birthday now? The vase will
be empty, the little breath of my life that blew around you once a year will die away as
well! Beloved, listen, I beg you… it is the first and last thing I ask you… do it for me
every year on your birthday, which is a day when people think of themselves—buy
some roses and put them in that vase. Do it, beloved, in the same way as others have a
Mass said once a year for someone now dead who was dear to them. I do not believe
in God any more, however, and do not want a Mass—I believe only in you, I love only
you, and I will live on only in you… oh, only for one day a year, very, very quietly, as
I lived near you… I beg you, do that, beloved… it is the first thing that I have ever
asked you to do, and the last… thank you… I love you, I love you… goodbye