Today I am without knowing---I do not know how, today I am only for sorrows, today I have no friendship, today I only want to rip out my heart and put it under a shoe.
Today that dry thorn grows green, today is the day my kingdom weeps, today it pours its despair into my chest.
I cannot move with my star. And I search for death through my hands gazing tenderly at the blades, remembering that faithful axe, thinking of the highest bell towers for one serene tumble.
If only ... I cannot say why, my heart would pen its final letter, a letter I keep locked within, I would make an inkwell of my heart, a wellspring of words, farewells and gifts, and there you would remain, I would tell the world.
I was born beneath a waning moon. I carry one pain, singular, worth more than all the joy.
A love has left me with arms fallen, and I cannot reach for anything more. Don't you see my mouth how it droops, how my eyes betray their ruin?
The more I look upon myself, the more I grieve: with what blade could I sever this pain?
Yesterday, tomorrow, today--- all of it festering, my heart, a melancholy tank of fish, a cage where nightingales go to die.
I have heart to spare.
Today, worn down, I am the most tender of men, and for that tenderness, the most embittered.
I don't know why, I don't know why or how I forgive myself each dawn.