I need do no more
for the most wretched despair
lulls me into these dens of lunatics
that are strangely possessed by tint and varnish.
ill tempered and miserable
these cities afflicted by plague;
with faces I can no longer recall
- ruinous for the most part -
cater to all sorts of low voices.

I had lain alone all night
and I can now tell thee
it is utterly filthy down here.

in these morose last few days
I can not discern what the future holds in store...
as this pool of fresh blood grows
one thing still gives me hope.
I shall soon be dead, shall I not?