Last night you woke up in the middle of the night
and said you were leaving for Berlin. When?
Tonight, before I chicken out. I will write
biographies of Wagner and Kafka. Why?
Germanic, Teutonic, they understand my pain;
I will interpret them for you. For me?
Your pain has many corridors, many chambers—
you have neglected your suffering. I have?
You have neglected me. I am Suffering.
I am the Immaculate Deception. You?
You will come with me, my Beatrice, my Dulcinea.
You will finally confront your heartache. I
will not. I will not. I will not. Because
you are insufferable.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem