I have turned into a sword, the wound has come from elsewhere
The sword has come from another night
That has been gathering in the room.
Do you understand me?

I wrote in a dream the wound is here
Before, I was an orphaned sword,
Thus I wanted to say,
And the night is a well, I covered the mouth of the well

I don't give a damn what you say
(Is compared to worthless clay)
I explained my distress to you and that my future depends suddenly
On a piece of clay, thank you for sitting with me

Fear has dug-up the psyche, has turned furrows within
Has sowed it with anti-toxines
--- The physical need overpowers everything
In front of the lamp I wrote this script of curse:

I don't care they'll break her skull with a blunt tool
And wrap her corpse with rustling paper
And send it upon the face of a dirty river
I don't care she'll die now
I don't care she'll suffer, on the contrary

I don't care her home will burn
Her car will turn over
Her psyche will smash
And trampling her honour with a heavy shoe
I don't care she'll cry and will have no comforter

I am the abysmal sword.
Here is the wound
Do help me, I have called you,
And I covered the mouth of the night

Here is the wound and the ointments of psyche:
Diverting the brook of words and thoughts
Sowing the good
In post-traumatic ground

I bore a monster ---
Here is the blood smeared on the sword