It's my thirst which concedes that there is water ...

Irrigated, my soul awakes forth:
I'm surviving my nights, for I taper
this body worth ...

I exceed all my fates. I should fight tiers
of wasted battles, anxious to allot
penitences of Eva & wagger
fleeings of Loth ...

Who am I? My kosmography could know! Yet I master

her thoughts - trespassing my bounds - remote ...
May I be my breath, confined by - rather -
things he says me not..?