I Wrote Silences; Nights; I Recorded The

The Wolf Howled Under The Leaves And Spit Out The Prettiest Feathers Of His Meal Of Fowl: Like Him I Consume Myself.

It Began As Research. I Wrote Of Silences, Of Nights, I Scribbled The Indescribable. I Tied Down The Vertigo.

The Poet Makes Himself A Voyant Through A Long, Immense Reasoned Deranging Of All His Senses. All The Forms Of Love, Of Suffering, Of Madness; He Tries To Find Himself, He Exhausts In Himself All The Poisons, To Keep Only Their Quintessences.

A Thousand Dreams Within Me Softly Burn: From Time To Time My Heart Is Like Some Oak Whose Blood Runs Golden Where A Branch Is Torn.

Stronger Than Alcohol, Vaster Than Poetry, Ferment The Freckled Red Bitterness Of Love!