I rose from a wasted sleep
with Neitzschean hymns still echoing
as if they'd been my lullabies
And it would seem the clouds
that so amiably had dimmed vapid rays
Are rallied in a front behind my back.
And bitter memories like tombstones
stand so cold and silent;
A laryngectimized living still life,
or mute caricature of a history
doomed to repeat forever.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem