I am still, I am strange, protruding from the bed,
For that night was a wept night, a fortunate dread.
And so face down I sighed and dreamed of beauty,
With crumbs in my sheet, blood on my very knee.
The passing colours still reside in my human mind,
An obscure Elephant, or vague Lion that will bind,
So I tread on the molecules of the head and heart,
In a sleep, in an inner relaxation of the very art.
I am the beginning of a living in this void called Life,
My state is of this dormitory and this bleeding strife.
O my illness! O my death of rights! I speak too quietly,
Like a child who suffers in solitude, whose wisdom I agree.
The landscape is against my soul, the readings are complete,
And so my heart sways according to the dreary clock I greet.
This is the movement of my policy, of my courage and leap,
These are the verses of the weak that feel you when asleep.