You, my brother, holding the light - Lend me
some. I'm blind. Can't find my way in the dark.
Can't escape the tempests or storms. Music
and blinding dreams have driven me crazy.
That is my curse. To dream. Poetry
is an iron vest with a thousand darts.
It's wrapped around my soul, its bloody barbs
wet with endless drops of melancholy.
I roam the bitter world, insane and blind,
and I think, at times, that the way I find
is long - or very short...
So, torn between courage and agony,
it's hard to bear the burdens of my heart.
Can't you hear those drops, that melancholy?