A fountain's pulsing sobs--like this my blood

Measures its flowing, so it sometimes seems.

I hear a gentle murmur as it streams;

Where the wound lies I've never understood.



Like water meadows, boulevards are flooded.

Cobblestones, crisscrossed by scarlet rills,

Are islands; creatures come and drink their fill.

Nothing in nature now remains unblooded.



I used to hope that wine could bring me ease,

Could lull asleep my deeply gnawing mind.

I was a fool: the senses clear with wine.



I looked to Love to cure my old disease.

Love led me to a thicket of IVs

Where bristling needles thirsted for each vein.