On the brink of a precipice I stand
In hands a knife with blood I am insolent
To me all the same in a hell or paradise
I or it choose
While you think I die
You collect things and leave
I as a flower dry up
Not you my love
On a knife not your blood
Not I am enamoured of you
And death! It the reason
All suffer also tortures
Disapproving looks and restrictions
You forget me
Not yours I, not yours
And I am enamoured of death.....