In the dark night, he armed himself in a flash, lit by two lampposts which caress him.
His shadow consciously cuts off the desire to choose.
Is this how he knows who to seize
In the hope of a sleeping tenderness?
The face stretches, because it rubs off
On what is extinguished in silence.
Finally, the jewellery case comes alive with a thousand manias.
Boor led to evil who did not ask for so much, and yet
The song of the nightingale is heard.
Why is he there? He does not know.
Although he always knew it, he no longer knows.
Candid’s stupor, which is said to be stupid;
Sincere confession sometimes without flavor,
Because the heart is misled in
Fool seeing love where he didn’t sit.
Great smashing frankly,
Without disillusion, dilettante.