Death, whose guise is end to sorrow,
sells salvation 'til tomorrow.

I'm made of lead
as I'm laid in bed
heavy laden.

Me siento como una piedra plantada en la costa del mar;
el agua me abraza,
el sol me besa,
escucho sin hablar,
y hablo sin certeza.

The quickness of rage—
that murderous blight—
discards self-control
for counterfeit might.

I drown when I divert from love,
dragged into a crushing depth;
and lo, the way whereon I trod—
one whose gate is wide and broad—
does lead me unto certain death.

Mere silence, too, could be
a melancholic melody.

My hands move like water over lily pads white and black—
above keys that agree with the notes of a mental track.
I'm pulled by a rhythm forward and back.
I lose myself in a euphonic lilac.