A pitiful wretch inhabits my brain;
In a boiling cauldron he writhes in pain.
When I perceive beauty or feel desire,
On impulse the cognizance feeds the fire.

The prisoner screams, he blisters and burns;
He suffers and dies, and then he returns.
As long as I love, he'll never rest;
The hug of a child puts him to the test.

Nothing will comfort this inmate of life
But hunger and cold, aloneness and strife.
He'd pluck out my eyes, cut out my tongue,
And make me a bed out of thorns and dung.

Yet I’ve known those who were quite insane
Because no wretch lived in their brain.
I hope until the moment I die,
My head resounds with that sobering cry.