You have made every thorn prick us and know our tale. You took us to the wilderness of madness, and let everybody know.

Our fault was we ate of a grain, and his that he refused to bow. You never pardoned that poor devil, nor have You yet forgiven us.

A hundred worlds spring up like flowers from our imagination’s soil. There is but one real world; and that too you have made of the blood of murdered wishes.

Like colour the reflection of Your beauty shines through the glass. You have made of the goblet’s wall a screen for Yourself, just like wine.

O, lay some new foundation, for we happen to like novelty. What is this giddy peep-how You have made of yesterdays, to-morrows and to-days?