Demons lay in the wood of the table top,
In the ink of the pen,
In each twisted word formed by my hand.
Writings in which every ghost
Is made tangible,
With eyes that do not see
But are mirrors.
They are something other worldly entirely.
A swelling terror
Like a sea of corpses
That in an instant
Could consume me.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem