I won\'t let go.
He\'s going to have to use that spear.
Lord!
I believed,
I sang,
I flew,
I resisted.
I drew in the water
waning to melt,
like the torrent
flowing—it forks
and decides—.
I let myself be seen:
the ephemerality of being,
the real delirium.
My name doesn\'t matter,
yes, my purpose!
They weigh on the golden scales
my heart,
the twelve,
under my arm, the book.
They will say.