A corpse never dies
A wassail around the grave
Of the Russian mystic
Lunacy crucified in his eye
He walks around in a black robe
On a graveyard
That did not cry
On which I listened to yelling and screamed
Sensitively gentle and superior
Put me away into wilted flowers
So I repose there
Already my corpse reeks strongly
The one that never dies
Whose wounds were played in the darkness
The downfall which with a watchful eye
I saw never again
I am repulsed by the rot that sleazes through my senses
Amid the room given to me like a grave, and the glass
To watch my reflection in it
Or end my life with the smithereens!
I knit a wreath for the vixen
Who was suffocating next to the shaft,
Tearing the grid with her teeth,
Who was breaking the joists,
She rode the Lion’s gate
In a dress with a décolletage
Cut with her sword and enflamed with her pyre
The heads of the five Mycenaean bulls
Drank the blood of the horse from the silver chalice,
Tasseled in rosettes, with a light sword
I dug two pits
For two rings, of gold and of bronze.
For the beast that leaves the cup of wormwood
At the tip of the hands
For the beast
With a merciful heart of the venomous fungus
Like you (who are a) corpse
Like you, scorpion, who are
While unease ripens in the fog
Lulled inside the years
A bloodied sun comes out in the west
Throw me to the pigs!
In the circle of graves?
In the tomb of Atreus?
In the sea bed of Aegean full of blood.