It is on my desk piles of paper
An inkwell dry, dull feathers, a candelabrum
death and smeared with soot, and empty bottles
ripped through the night.
I wandered into this scene naive and pathetic,
Cursing the white sheets piled
And the virginity of my hand timid, trembling
Who caressing the idea of a feeling.
And yet I dreamed that night of debauchery,
excess and opulence, of passionate letters.
But tonight my wrist was still left
And nothing came defile the innocent papers.
It is in my mind so many words and ideas
Feelings also smothered and die.
Like everything sounds good! I would tell them to you ... But I remain silent
and I shudder to write.
In the delirium of silly my sleep troubled
I take the pen yet and I blacked out pages,
sonnets where your name is wonderful rhyme, bright letters
And when I praise your face.
But in the morning the lines were erased,
And the reason my poor censorship arabesques.
I see the ridiculousness of my ideas grotesque
And I give birth to a new masterpiece stillborn.
man than I am, whenever I open my eyes,
judge me, condemn me to a shameful fate.
Your eyes should read these words I dreamed, but my clumsy fingers
not know the plot. When
on paper, feverish, I venture,
soon accumulate and red sticker. On
feeling gracious I botched the portrait, and my
banalities in corrupt lines.
So for you my angel I compromise myself,
I put in my heart my honor outdated
And I publish this to lack of height,
Because silence kills me more than my mistakes.
These legendary love the morning abortive
My eyes, my hands, my body will tell you them, eloquent lover
And I try to be
Te will forget the absence of my letters.
It would take a genius to fulfill my task,
And you deserve it, but my talent is loose.
I have no genius to tell you about us, I'm
lover but a lover crazy.
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