Like horrible batrachians in the atmosphere,

lugubrious smirks rise to the lip.

Through the blue Sahara of Substance

walks a gray verse, a dromedary.

A grimace of cruel dreams phosphoresces.

And the blind man who died full of the voices

of snow. Rise at dawn, poet, nomad,

to the rawest day of being man.

The Hours feverishly go by, and in the corners

blond centuries of happiness abort.

Who spins out so much thread; who ruthlessly

lowers our nerves, cords

already frayed, into the tomb!

Love! And you too. Black stonings

breed in your mask and smash it.

The tomb is still

womans sex that draws man in!