It's my thirst which concedes that there is water ...
Irrigated – my soul awakes forth:
I'm surviving my nights, for I taper
this body’s worth ...
I exceed all my fates. I should fight tiers
of wasted battles, anxious to allot
penitences of Eva & wagger
fleeings of Loth ...
Who am I? My kosmography could know! Yet I master
her thoughts – trespassing my bounds – remote.
May I be my breath, confined by – rather –
the things he says me not..?