What is my nothingness to the stupor that awaits you?

I wrote silences; nights; I recorded the unnameable.

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

But the problem is to make the soul into a monster

What an old maid I'm getting to be. lacking the courage to be in love with death!

I may die of earthly love, or of devotion.

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