What is it, Oh what is it that plagues my mind

Which rests its design in black melancholy

And perpetual lament

Producing desperate and unreasonable frustrations

And condemnations of grotesque obligations

Investing a relentless barbarism of lamentation

In that moment of the infinite pulse of inaccuracies

That raises from the grave of oblivion illicit ambitions

And by their presence embalms me with an ambiguous curse

That compels no rivalry or universal justification