I was not born at time of peace,
nor was I at time of war.
I was born at time of nihilism,
With high blocks of flat-like abysses.
Had I been at time of lyre-players,
My name would’ve preceded that of God.
Was I at time of ideas’ cradle,
Life would now be defiled and gnawed.
Unfortunately, I have come late;
to look at God’s looking at yore,
to see ephemeral fools building,
what shall outlive themselves.
O lord come to me, for
the intoxication of you is warmer.
O Odorless Goddess I recourse to you —
Gods have lost their pride,
Hope’s been cut asunder,
But the ground is still ours,
and I aspire to going under.
O Gods of life and light surrender,
You and I have lost.
Come with me, for all our words
are but the lifeless grave of a saint.