In the loveless landscape of my solitude
No movement prevails that calms me, no rest
That consoles or dispatches me like a firstborn.
Proudly my blood translates the signs,
My translates the signs,
The flashes across the wry water of the past,
And bear the qualities of him
Who shuns even the pains of November.
Wretched, body and dream denying, I retreat
To the underworld of my unbelief.

No limits, no beacons, no horizon.
And descending, like a nomad with a goal,
The falcon begins its dreadful flight.
And from the last remnants of my hope
I gather the strange fragments of my decay,
First addicted and then cured, I hide
In the shameful disaster that consumes me.

I shall do no harm, or wreak havoc
No sacred mountain is unknown to me.
I shall bid myself get well, and peacefully
Follow the lifelines of memory
To the ruins of my past still just smouldering,
And in death's throes in my uprooted landscape
I will stretch out a hand to the veil of deep sleep
Softly enough not scratch hate, or pain
In the pregnant absence of her word of refusal.

Translation: Paul Vincent