‘Tis all that I need,
‘Tis my great devotion,
If I can write and read,
I must destroy my emotion.

It merely comes, with no warning,
A beastly urge to write.
From day, to night, to morning,
And to my mind’s foul delight.

I know not why,
So pray do not ask me so.
I’ll write ‘till I die,
For now it came, it shall not go.

What is it I write?
The muses must know,
For there is only light,
When my words doth flow.

Even now, writing this,
I write simply out of yearning,
So that I may have fair bliss,
‘Till more words start burning.

Why do I write?
I know not.
What do I write?
I know not.
Then what means this?
It means that I rot,
In a heaven of words’ bliss,
And in hell’s fires hot,
When writing I miss.