Because my imagination became real, I long for solidity
Diseased thoughts feeding on generous affections
Creating a hell of morbidity,
Pathological symptoms tuned on an over generous heart,
A well of disorder by taking fantasy as fact,
That's what trebled the medication and ruined my life, my art.
And now in this hole of discomfort I bare my wounds for all to see
I know not the way, the path, the road from the mightiest stretch to the tiniest lea.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem