Here I am walking exhausted and merciless - under the shadow of promises - bumping into every rock on either side of the road. My feet are so cold that they despair, and my forehead is a legendary promise that knows no death. I am a man who is very postponed and dull. My life is dark, its knees are tired of emptiness, and its forehead is filled with cold wounds.
How can I wake up while the shattered mirrors await me, scattering my body in space, holy wars, their stalks dancing above my capitals like branches of dewy corn. And they laugh and tell me that I am something immortal, bleeding here and there with pleasure. Oh, my miserable luck, is there other choice than holy wars?
Yes, my friend, this is how I fall, a waterfall that knows nothing but crying. I disappear in my longing like a traveler of snow, whose ribs have been shattered by the stories of passersby.
Yes, this is me, a postponed man and a crippled dream. When I live with all my voice and when I drown in my pain to the marrow, the harsh afternoon devours me, and many great voices swallow me in a moment. Then I know that the beloved earth is lying when it sheds a tear as pale as the color of sunset.