My head is a coppersmiths' bazaar,
my heart is in the clutches of barbarians;

I grapple with myself so fiercely,
that a goldsmiths' brawl rages within me.

I have no wish to speak,
nor any longing for silence,

for my troubled soul
is stranded in the limbo of beliefs.

I pretend to be fine,
but only out of helplessness,

for my soul is a wounded strait,
as mournful as any harbor town.

Madness boils in the bowl of my skull
like garlic in vinegar,

And I despise my heart,
a graveyard of girls.

Demons inside me
hold their weekly gatherings,

For there's a wild child in me,
a champion of the free spirits.

A valley of hell within me
is forever hot with self-immolation;

I am the wood, I am the fire,
I am the burning brand, the mourning of the pines.

My wings became my curse
the moment cages came into fashion;

I heard a cage-maker say:
"The cage is the death of doves."

Joseph's fall into the well
taught me this:

even if you are Joseph,
your brothers will still come for you.

I have no hope for a tender glance,
and my heart has no wish left,

in this market of disgrace,
where the heart is merchandise for charmers.

The book of my life
was scarred into my back,

thanks to the kindness of friends
and the blades of daggers.