He is inaudible from you and kindness,
His words muttered are gladdening me.
Why do the strokes of the pen be wise?
From him they reiterate a mean life
In the state of instant terror
My soul is enraged by Satan,
His relics are against my hearing
For they sound too sour for my
I am my hands that uplift
Their twenty fingers so hard and fast,
Those I am that function
Due to my wits,
Two matters conceal one another,
The passing of the seasons is a factor;
There are faulty workers in this season of our
Making, the making is in the folly.
He is my suzerain, a mighty blow to the heart,
Downcast is the training of my heart that masters
The lamentable tones, as they unfold with crying.
Callous inhuman works are committed by some gross devil,
Small portions of the world
Started to star in certain parts.
To write a book on the petals of the earth
Is like a nameless darkness,
In the mirror I saw a cup of colours,
Dying and living in the light of its neighbours.
A nameless darkness struck the gloaming,
One wondered and waited, forfeiting the lightness.
The lock is continuous in the stay on Earth,
It looks like a foregone conclusion, of meat and fibre.
The locks of a goal are strewn about in random fashion,
Untie the knots to enter no region of despair,
This pilgrimage of the heart entangles me,
Inside the isle of the soul is another soul,
Leaving us aside with blades roaring,
Daggers dangling with split fires.