13 Minutes

I love the night life in the city,
One's granted, be just this lonesome
From the urgent aquous abyss
That extends from one comma to the other,
And how little thrill here... but yet fearless there
One becomes, from hindering himself in the wait
And how happy and pure, cleaner than birth
Are the verses in days of hunger, of melancholy.
A certain vitality arrives home, if only from despair
O how much love, in the sad harmony of the far-aways;
They glee at me, yes, the lines...
When I remain so silent,
Not because the heart has died, it is just furious
From having so little to add, so much to waste...
With that thin opression of the air,
That rises from the asphalt, vomitted onto wet, old earth
And the journeys, in between the letters
Love the symbols, the screeching figurines, far more than they love the present.
Only with the night life, one can play the right lire,
When the tunes are so drunk, so ready to die
And far truer than bodies falling in love with art.
The noise spreads out through the eyelid;
The mount sleeps alone, no one dares write, or pound
As to distract fresh ironies that always come with illness,
For it is said that Socrates laughed once and never cried.