When the sky appears in pain
and sunset no more than a wound,
what are the thoughts that occur
to a libertine soul like yours?
– Nothing can slake my thirst
for the nameless and the obscure:
you’ll never hear me complain
like Ovid whining for Rome,
The canyons of bloody cloud
accommodate my pride,
their nebulous shapes become
a splendid hearse for my dreams,
their red glow the reflection
of the Hell where my heart’s at home.