Hence forward, what for the spirit, fame, or fantasy...
You left me... and everything extinguish callously.
For the wounded eagle, the wings are burden,
Useless addition of agony, their flounder.
And I comply with... The punishment by your mouth told
For me is a law, of unmixed and heavy gold;
The pain from you is a temptation still,
You, for my genius of genius trustee.
To old dense fogs, I let again myself be swallow
A late flame will burst out from my burrow;
Then, the whole world will discern, amazedly,
Mysteriously how grows up our poetry,

From the love born in unrest and ardor,
Privately, like a love child of a secret father!

Sunday, 12 December 1954