The nature strived to deter man from getting free;
Overmuch uplifted him the love, on its acme,
And buried it into the flesh... Of blind hole’s loot,
Unto the skies sprouts its eternal root.
Nearby the worms, from the black rottenness,
Mine was bloating bulbs, ardently and shameless...
But, my highest spring, you have breezed so gently,
That unto you the worship sprang like a lily, softly.
To your sweet alchemy, the waste complies,
Under your sunny hair, your blue and open eyes,
Has turned into fragrance the filthy ill.
Dark and sleep change into azure and dream,

In front of you are kneeling – urged,
Tremendous vices lastly purged...

Wednesday, March 30, 1955