my language, bristling with questions,
cuts itself short in the pools of the hills,
and the rocks understand my pain.
People, nevertheless, still mutter:
suspecting that my problems have no cure,
they throw stones at me, flee from my side.
What a desert refuge is the frontier!
At times, I search in the realm of dreams,
I drug myself with toxic poppies,
and, trembling and pale, I watch
for the silent hour of the dew,
the mineral semen of the full moon
and the sacred ritual of the conjurors.