They all know that I'm alive, that I'm vicious; and they don't know the December that follows from that January. Well, on the day I was born, God was sick.
There is an empty place in my metaphysical shape that no one can reach: a cloister of silence that spoke with the fire of its voice muffled.
On the day I was born, God was sick.
Brother, listen to me, Listen... Oh, all right. Don't worry, I won't leave without taking my Decembers along, without leaving my Januaries behind. Well, on the day I was born, God was sick.
They all know that I'm alive, that I chew my food...and they don't know why harsh winds whistle in my poems, the narrow uneasiness of a coffin, winds untangled from the Sphinx who holds the desert for routine questioning.
Yes, they all know...Well, they don't know that the light gets skinny and the darkness gets bloated... and they don't know that the Mystery joins things together... that he is the hunchback musical and sad who stands a little way off and foretells the dazzling progression from the limits to the Limits.