Translation:The Black Heralds (1918)/Espergesia
I was born on a day
when God was sick.
Everyone knows that I live,
that I’m evil; and they don’t know
about the December of that January.
Since I was born on a day
when God was sick.
There’s a void
in my metaphysical air
that no one must feel:
the cloister of a silence
that spoke on the edge of a fire.
I was born on a day
when God was sick.
Brother, listen, listen...
Alright. And may I not go
without bringing Decembers,
without leaving Januaries.
Since I was born on a day
when God was sick.
Everyone knows that I live,
that I chew... and they don’t know
why there’s a squeal in my verse,
the dark uncertainty of a coffin,
from polished unrolled winds of the inquisitive
Desert Sphinx.
Everyone knows... And they don’t know
that the Light is consumptive,
and the Dark fat...
And they don’t know that the mystery encapsulates
that it’s the musical
and sad hunched back that denounces from a distance
the meridian step from the boundaries to the Boundaries.
I was born a day
when God was sick,
gravely sick.