Before you came, things were as they should be: the sky was the dead-end of sight, the road was just a road, wine merely wine. Now everything is like my heart, a color at the edge of blood: the grey of your absence, the color of poison, of thorns, the gold when we meet, the season ablaze, the yellow of autumn, the red of flowers, of flames, and the black when you cover the earth with the coal of dead fires. And the sky, the road, the glass of wine? The sky is a shirt wet with tears, the road a vein about to break, and the glass of wine a mirror in which the sky, the road, the world keep changing. Don't leave now that you're here— Stay. So the world may become like itself again: so the sky may be the sky, the road a road, and the glass of wine not a mirror, just a glass of wine.
This is how my sorrow became visible: its dust, piling up for years in my heart, finally reached my eyes, the bitterness now so clear that I had to listen when my friends told me to wash my eyes with blood. Everything at once was tangled in blood— each face, each idol, red everywhere. Blood swept over the sun, washing away its gold. The moon erupted with blood, its silver extinguished. The sky promised a morning of blood, and the night wept only blood. The trees hardened into crimson pillars. All flowers filled their eyes with blood. And every glance was an arrow, each pierced image blood. This blood —a river crying out for martyrs— flows on in longing. And in sorrow, in rage, in love. Let it flow. Should it be dammed up, there will only be hatred cloaked in colors of death. Don't let this happen, my friends, bring all my tears back instead, a flood to purify my dust-filled eyes, to was this blood forever from my eyes.