In self-knowledge, torture, scalped skin, knees on boiling asphalt
In another fall;
My constant pilgrimage of man-restarted;
Oh; reckless; without deep truths; without seas of sorrows; what tears of a
poisonous pond you shed in my wounds?
What inconstancy, inaccuracy, swirl to love me; as if the dark water wanted from me to
be my blood;
And I write; for this is the fate of my heart; and write;
Because since childhood, falling and rising, I learned in games: letter and poetry is
written better in pain.
Advertisements
