I dream of an existence in an iron cloister,Burned with fasting and dried and grated with hair shavings,Where we would abolish, in mute torments,By the ardor of the soul alone, finally, all the flesh.Wild self-loathing savagery if morally felt!When our bodies are sulking and our nerves are sulking at night,Throw their hood of boredom on our wishes,Or suddenly tear us away from inertia.Say, that crying, that screaming and that fear of the evening!Say, these sickness pellets in all the limbs,And the heavy torpor of morbid November,And the disgust of touching and seeing each other?Say, those hands that regret the old viceAnd who are looking for a place to decorate the curves of the cushionsAnd belly fleeces and clusters of breastsAnd sweaty heat for the accomplice dream?I dream of an existence in an iron cloister,Burned with fasting and dried and grated with hair shavings,Where we would abolish, in mute torments,By the ardor of the soul alone, finally, all the flesh.And to impose the freezing of the senses on oneself when the body burns;And tyrannize and twist their hearts,- Alas! what's left of it - and twist, with resentment,Even to the regret of a once sweet and gullible man.To whip oneself in one's mind and in one's blood,In his effort, in his hope, in his blasphemy;And exalt himself from this contempt, poor himself,But who buys back a little of the pride from which we come down.And pettiness in futile practicesAnd make yourself small and have only harshnessFor all that is not of an acrid nullityIn the faded garden of hostile blooms.I dream of an existence in an iron cloister,Burned with fasting and dried and grated with hair shavings,Where we would abolish, in mute torments,By the ardor of the soul alone, finally, all the flesh.Oh, the constant rage to crash, the rage to crash, the rageTo torture himself so much, to diminish himself so much,That the whole being is only alive to sufferAnd his joy and savings are hurt.No longer hear his cries, no longer feel his cries,Mater his dark instinct, kill his treacherous reason,Oh! Power and knowledge! To be his master!And finally break them, the fangs of his pain!And maybe then, on a healthy evening,A peace of nothingness would settle in me,And that without being moved I would listen to the bark,The tumultuous bark of voluntary death.I dream of an existence in an iron cloister.
