Sometimes it seems to me my blood gushes
like a fountain, in rhythmic sobs,
I hear it flowing with long murmurs,
but I grope in vain to find the wound.
All across the city, as in a field of honour,
it spills out, transforming paving stones to islands,
quenching Every creature’s thirst and painting all nature red.
Often I have asked strong wine to numb for a day the terror consuming me: