With this tooth that is growing stealthily, taking advantage of my sleep
In order to, perhaps, flash forth one morning like a terrible weapon
With an adequate physique, although with a more sluggish flow of fluids
And an additional millisecond, necessary, in order to react,
I can nonetheless still attempt to bribe at least the most insignificant angel.

The irritated gods of all of my life, menacing and kind spirits.
That anticipate from me the most cruel “no,” the wheel,
That rolls by itself, driven by the wind and the foreboding of a rainstorm.
All of the creatures who came around to show me something,
Grow silent here, and move away, as though writing in another direction.

A steady rhythm, like that of the Sudanese market, conveys
something else about the same simple sadness. The stray embassy of tungsten,
that provides me with a glimmering sign, what is the meaning,
where does one begin to exit: Everything is written toward the center, toward that uncertain sign,
the self-deciphering hieroglyph that translates itself as the Spasm and the Trumpet.