Sol 5.6

  1. I am in my poetry, and my poetry is my story.

    I am not in my body, nor in its outward form.

  2. Between your palms, my being throbs,

    And my heart lies drowned in its own blood.

  3. Woe is me because of it—and oh, woe to it,

    And woe to whoever swims within its world.

  4. How often it saddened me in the midst of joy,

    And I sang the melody at its funeral.

Sol 5.6