In the cloisters of my soul the wound
lies quiet; but hungrily it consumes
the life that in my veins feeds
a flame that extends through my marrow.

My dropsied life drinks the fire
as now, emaciated and loving ash,
the remains of the lovely fire, it displays
its extinguished light in smoke and darkness.

I flee people and am horrified by the day;
I extend in long cries my black weeping,
which to a silent sea my burning pain sends.

To cries I gave the voice of song;
confusion floods my soul;
my heart is a realm of terror.