My mind is a factory where death is made,
mouth is an ancient sepulchral tomb,
my ear a wooden coffin.
I make these beautiful corpses with them;
some call them dreams,
dreams, at any rate, whose death I know of
the moment they come out of my mouth.
One day I’ll leave,
and go far to the foreign lands,
where dreams never die, for they’re never made;
where the factory of the mind is ever closed,
and the dead plays a game of truth.
One day I’ll live.