All the words within my breast, though weary, listen still. These wounds I've gathered, deep-pressed— kiss them away, heal them, will you?
A thousand torments I have kept hidden away for days untold, bearing your neglect, and yet— see, I have not died, behold!
You'll rage, I know, when you hear this, you'll want to silence what I say, but stopping me only makes it rise— the beggar's one sickness, his only way!
How could you forget me so completely? Not once did I cross your mind, not once? Would it be such sin to touch me briefly? Let me touch you one last time, just once?
So much you promised with your lips, never tasted salt of tears, did you? Your hand slipped away so quick, yet still I dared to love you true!
You questioned me in countless ways each day: what kind of love can busy people know? Only the jobless seek such anguish, you'd say! But anguish isn't wounds—it's poison's flow!