Translated by Michael Benedikt


Nox et solitudo plenae sunt diabolo.
--The Church Fathers
At night, my room is full of devils.


"Oh! the earth"--I murmured into the night--"is a perfumed flower whose pistel and stamens are the moon and the stars!"

And, eyes heavy with sleep, I closed my window inlaid with the cross of Calvary, outlined in black among the yellow haloes of the stained glass.

*

Oh were it only on this midnight--this traditional time for dragons and devils!--some little gnome once again, drunken from drinking the oil of my lamp!

Were it only some wetnurse droning a dismal lullaby, and rocking a tiny, still-born baby in the hollow of my father's breast-plate.

Were it only the skeleton of the old swordsman imprisoned in the wall-paneling, and banging on it with his forehead, elbow, and knee!

Were it only my grandsire stepping down full-figure from his worm-eaten frame, and dipping his gauntlet in the holy-water fount.

But no: Instead it's Scarbo, gnawing away at my neck, and then cauterizing my bloody wound by thrusting out one iron finger--red-hot from the fireplace--straight out into it!