Oh! If Only We Were Naked Now,

I May Die Of Earthly Love, Or Of Devotion.

I Could Never Throw Love Out Of The Window.

You Will Always Be A Hyena.

The Poet Makes Himself A Voyant Through A Long, Immense Reasoned Deranging Of All His Senses. All The Forms Of Love, Of Suffering, Of Madness; He Tries To Find Himself, He Exhausts In Himself All The Poisons, To Keep Only Their Quintessences.

What A Life! True Life Is Elsewhere. We Are Not In The World.