A fountain's pulsing sobslike that my blood
Measures its flowingso it sometimes seems.
I hear a gentle murmur as it streams;
Where the wound is I've never understood.
Like meadows of water, boulevards are flooded.
Cobblestones, crisscrossed by scarlet rills,
Are islands; the creatures come and drink their fill.
Nothing in nature now remains unblooded.
I used to think that wine could bring me ease,
Could lull to sleep my deeply gnawing mind.
I was a fool: the senses clear with wine.
I turned to Love to cure my old disease.
Love led me to a thicket of IVs
Where bristling needles thirsted for each vein.