Each instant with his pious oblivion, without becoming
Memory, dissolves into the fragrance of the void.
Though the world may nail its thousand axes in your mind,
There is within the depth of soul a sphere that does not spin.
Your held beliefs have crumbled, and reflect the same moon
In your every leaf.
Receive the promised port's aroma after a voyage through
A thousand chasms dressed up as whores.
Feel the child burn in your chest, watch it fall into
Millennial ashes,
Suffer the thrust of the wind with your eyes fixed on the sky
And your mind in rags.
Be now the reflection of what you have never been, so that the
Traces of your steps give dancing lessons.
Pockets full of eternal absence, in posterity's flesh sow
Lucid worms.
Let the world slip through your open hands, throw yourself at the precipice turned into an apple.

Translated by Tom Billsborough