As I descended into impassable rivers I no longer felt guided by the ferrymen.
One evening I sat Beauty on my knees – And I found her bitter – And I reviled her.
A thousand Dreams within me softly burn
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.
Is it in these bottomless nights that you sleep in exile?
What am I doing here?