Idle youth, enslaved to everything; by being too sensitive I have wasted my life.

Once, if I remember well, my life was a feast where all hearts opened and all wines flowed.

I dreamed of Crusades, voyages of discovery that nobody had heard of, republics without histories, religious wars stamped out, revolutions in morals, movements of races and continents; I used to believe in every kind of magic. I began it as an investigation. I turned silences and nights into words. What was unutterable, I wrote down. I made the whirling world stand still.

It was the voice of mad seas, roaring immense,/ That shattered your infant breast, too soft, too human.

I turned silences and nights into words. What was unutterable, I wrote down. I made the whirling world stand still.

Idle youth, enslaved to everything; by being too sensitive I have wasted my life.

The Poet makes himself a seer through a long, vast and painstaking derangement of all the senses