1 The moon is at the door Hung by its feet. 2 Everybody became self-sufficient As a cut string. 3 Friends beget hither and thither Lies and trifles. 4 The meaning is imprisoned within itself None can redeem it Nor even I. 5 Those who died Had written well their destroyed poems. 6 Yesterday I died. In the morning I, as usual, woke up. 7 Hunger is a letter. All you need is to envelope it And send to you. Sorry To me. 8 The woman died: so did the dream, The sense and the dawn. Her death was an occasion for forty other disasters. 9 Madness is beautiful Because it is my post box full of birds And my future full of darkness. 10 My letters have protested Against the grief mountains in themselves. So I crushed them with a hand of steel With patience and horror. 11 The poet and the ruler died. The philosopher died And the historian died. When the fruit seller died The people, then, have protested. 12 My only friend who survived Sent me a letter, full of serpents and owls. It filled my home with horror. 13 When I read my poems yesterday In a public celebration A large mass of audience was there I had never dreamt of. Over there, there was none But my heart, My table And my blood. 14 Your love is poetry of light And you; my sweetheart are A she- prophet of darkness. 15 When I wrote your name, I became embarrassed. I madly loved its letters. I feared that people would behold them. Nay, I feared that I would behold them myself. 16 Where are you? Bring back to my blood Africa’s drums Asia’s follies And the phantoms of the lower world. 17 Your love has become a poem. All the crazy people of the Earth Are fond of it. How wonderful! 18 Your love has led my poetry To the essence of letters and dots. It has led me to superiority To superiority madness. 19 Th… The moon is at the door It has lifted one foot!