Before me is some pulchritude which is invisible to me,
For I have not eyes,
A mother and all her awing allure,
I am but hallow air, impervious to her growth,
I am not entirely inanimate to all that besets me,
But then again, I never prevailed,
So why then am I retained,
Lugged into this ambience which contains no substance,
Only this silent cacophony of depression,
But I do not feel,
I do not have limbs,
I do not have mind,
I do not contain matter,
For I am not, but the captive of the sleek silver barrel aimed not at my head,
And seized not by my hand,
Only pressed against what is nothing,
What means and so is but a forgotten glimpse of a shadow,
A most unfortunate inconvenience to those who are,
An illusion which causes pain to the eyes and soreness to the heart of them, but which itself does not contain,
There is no obstacle if there is no path to follow,
But what is obstacle and what is path, for I have no conception of these,
I have no conception at all, except of the silver barrel,
So I know this,
That when it makes its decision to do for what it is made,
It curses me down to which does not exist,
But ends me, that never was, none the less.