our days, our lives fugitive
As a brief illusion, like a fleeting dream
chain
will stay, just some wise words
And just for them our life will be justified.
The cup filled with the poisons of the earth
Somehow
overflow into radiant pieces.
They burn our days, our lives fugitive
like incense, like smoke from fugitive
dreams.
the drunken poet
I live well with madness and excess, spend the day writing
and
nights in the canteen. Find
dawn quiet, melancholic and impetuously
and write poems about death and sadness.
I live well. I myself have chosen to burn the boat
sorrowful destiny
While I scream at the helm. Di will
death and drowned in despair all the delights,
all.
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