My poor and my distant friend!
Please understand, even while the sleeplessness,
The secret, steady and inevitable
Desease is me consuming really...
Why there in my breast compressed
Is so much a pain and grief?
And beacons may be needless yet,
And hate's against the people, living
In waiting for the coming Christ...
The evil they do find at least...
And they fall down to despair
By always liying lips of god...
All those, who try you to spare,
All those, who wound you a lot...
Or - may be impulses, indeed,
Are quite enough, the illness's - shield?