Those delirious ideas of mine that always adores me 
 [bad word] from outside 
My head is an expanse of spite 
From which the tributaries of my torrents have 
Disappeared 

Images so coveted when [bad word] to me 
I would like my mirage to take me 
Far away, where everything is extinguished 
Far from the endless days 
place where time itself is altered 

And who, where checks and neutralizes itself 
And dries my thoughts into a desert of obsession 

It tarnishes the colours of successive centuries 
Incapable of reactiving his hours 
He obeys my reigning ideal 
Arid derision of reason is conceived 

Rationality wrings itself of its liquid 
We will mop up that fluid logic 
My dreaming was pratically swallowed up 
But escaped from what destiny foretells 
When you washed up on my shores 
Poetry set in on this coast 

It is the most sordid, the [bad word] 
That which makes the shores pile up 
Illusion drinks of what it will lose 
In this dried-up lake, this dream will drown