«With a passion I detest the saintly — / Their scrupulous and tortured concerns / And shallow thoughts are for themselves; / Themselves alone exclusively they save. They fear exclusively for their souls, / In terror of their dreams' gaping abyss / And of that ancient poisoner the Worm / ...»
«Oh, do not trust the nighttime hour! / It is filled with evil beauty. / In the nighttime people are close to death, / And flowers alone are strangely alive. Dark and warm are the quiet walls, / And the hearth is long without fire… / And from the flowers I await betrayals, / For the fl...»
«For three days now I’ve spoken with no one... / My thoughts are greedy and malicious. / My back hurts. Everywhere I look, / I see only sky-blue patches. The church bell was droning. It stopped. / I am alone with myself. / Silk of scarlet creaks and bends / Beneath the clumsy needle. ...»
«In her shameless and pathetic baseness, / Like dust, she is gray, like mortal remains. / And I am dying of this fatal closeness, / Because she cannot be dissolved from me. She is rough and she is thorny; / She is cold — she is a snake. / I am wounded all over by her sickly-burning, / ...»