Here, all the words in the world,
they are no good to me,
more or less, they are useless,
that much is plain to see.  

These barren syllables mock me,
scorn at my delight,
profundity and beauty desert me,
in mouldering hours of night.

Here the gravity of my world,
certainty in despondency,
what a tall and terrible load,
the language of impotency.