You Feel On Your Lips A Kiss

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.

Now I Am An Outcast. I Loathe My Country. The Best Thing For Me Is A Drunken Sleep On The Beach.

I Shed More Tears Than God Could Ever Have Required.

I Went Out Under The Sky, Muse! And I Was Your Vassal.

But The Problem Is To Make The Soul Into A Monster