The devil, which prevents Me from naming and praising That which inflames my senses:

Wet ground covered with oak Leaves steaming in the sun, The constellation of women

Around whom a joyful chorus Of violins rises, also gules my voice To my mind and thus denies

Shouts of direct exultation. Instead I burrow in these powerless Forms, a refuge for the multiply

Exiled, man from country, voice From language, thought from The written word. Questions on

The wall: who am I? What do I want to say? And how to name it?