---

Slow, your hand slips

on this mask of granite,

on the bars of this jail,

mother of the instability of your psiche.

Here you lacerate your flesh,

your nails engrave your punishment

in a suffocating claustral embrace,

an extinct shout between your arms.

Killer of yourself, drag your feet

with feeble steps to the sepulchre

that will lodge your limbs

where mountains of flowers will fall

repudiated from the living worlds,

like you, desiring what you don't possess,

the Nature that opens the gates to you

whose thoughts wander only toward Her.

Resident in the eternal cold of the winter,

king of a necropolis, wrapped by woods,

the rooks like gargoyles on the trees

shield it, singing devotional hymns to you

waiting for your tribute of blood.