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Mad Song

My madness is dear to me.

I who was almost always the sanest among my friends,

one to whom others came for comfort,

now at my breast (that look timid and ignorant,

that don’t look as if milk had flowered from them,

years gone by)

cherish a viper.

Hail,little serpent of useless longing

that may destroy me,

that bites me with such idle

needle teeth.


I who am loved by those who love me

for honesty,

to whom life was an honest breath

taken in good faith,

I’ve forgotten how to tell joy from bitterness.


Dear to me,dear to me,

blue poison, green pain in the mind’s veins.

How am I to be cured against my will?


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