The last twenty-three years, the wind has raised eighty percent of me.
The more I see the world, the more shameful it is.
Some read a sinner in my eyes;
others read an imbecile on my lips.
But I will regret nothing.
Even on the morning that rises brilliantly,
the dew of poetry dangling upon my forehead
is always mixed with a few drops of blood.
Through light and shade, I have come this far,
panting like a sick dog, tongue lolling.
“But I don’t want to go among mad people,” Alice remarked.
“Oh, you can’t help that,” said the Cat: “we’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.”
“How do you know I’m mad?” said Alice.
“You must be,” said the Cat, “or you wouldn’t have come here.”