I am the poet of the rotten pillows.

On eyelashes,
when the sweet slumber goes down,
The common waking rises
And the cavern chambers are dancing.

I am the poet of the rotten pillows.

My droughty dimension
Struggles in the sleepless universe
And the dreamland fades
By the insomnia's millenary voice.

I am the poet of the rotten pillows.

The leaves rest on the ground
Better than a crazy loner,
Who listens, in the wind, whispers that say
An olden night rune.

I am the poet of the rotten pillows.

Nigh of personal illusions,
I get bemused by the sour slumber
Which splits the waking, like a cyst,
Flowing away within gutters.

I am the poet of the rotten pillows...