I do not have easy days at home now and I drift between fear and helplessness in sunny rooms where it is unspeakably cold. Strange shudders of transformation, bodily experienced to the point of vulnerability, visions of mysteries until the certainty of having died, ecstasies to the point of stony petrifaction, and a continuation of dreaming sad dreams.

I drank the silence of God from a spring in the woods.

Black frost. The ground is hard, the air tastes bitter. Your stars cluster in evil signs.

Shuddering under the autumn stars, each year, the head sinks lower and lower.

The guilt of newborns is immense.

The blue of my eyes is extinguished in this night, the red gold of my heart.

The near stillness recalls what is forgotten, extinct angels.