I lay on the biggest ball of mortification,
Twirling,
Red, a bloody red which attaches to my flesh, shining stars;
The bird of death gets nearer to his fin,
He flies, stretching out his wings, making a dark blue silk which makes night,
Swooping down;
Their white,
Pale,
Distorted,
Getting closer to me;
I make revolutions;
My eyes wander the foul colors which they own.
Some inflated,
Some long,
And with most, there laughter is the mockery of my trepidation;
I shriek out and I hear myself, again;
I lie in a carpet in the center of humiliation,
I cry once,
Once only;
The bird screeches to the night, using his claws to take their flesh away.
They begin running,
Laughing,
Turning,
Clashing with one another;
Soon after my eyes being closed, I notice that what had formerly been there were Clowns, now, my enemies;
The Raven, old alas,
It flies on my shoulder, my beloved friend.