The sallow sadness of my shadow on the wall is reading a book on a stool. The crowd gathered within the pages set fire to the collapsing buildings in a giant forest. The muddy earth stretching beneath my feet points to a distant wooden horse. This place, where signs transform into scissor-shaped trunks, hides the ancient riddle within the name of truth.

 

Böcklin’s Isle of the Dead appeared in the windows at the edges of my eyes. A frozen eagle glides in the sky, loathsome blood dripping from the stains on its talons! —My face, I cannot recognize my own face!

 

In the vortex of something, my skull gave birth to the universe! Howling winds crowded between the bone faults. Oh, transformation! The true self I became left my non-existent home in ruins! A child’s voice on the stairs… The light is there, left fallow. The final chalice on God’s table melts like ice between my lips! Mother, give me back my sacred pain! The shadows speak softly: My sleep licked the scream of your misery. Cast out, spat out!

 

Just like a machine! Heavy, light, metal, cold shower, Red! I stripped off all my fur, I have come before you, my soul! Mother, throw me back into your womb! This is the price of my nakedness!