It is so that my transgressions have born a withered fruit,the sun has scorched the rising plans; alas they have no root, the bleached bones of animals bound by leather strips, dance through the air with laughter as i wield this wicked whip, as you did warn me carpenter, this world has weakened my heart, so easily i disparage, self-seeking the work of my art, and there you have come to me at the moment i bathe in my sorrow, so in love with myself, sought after avoiding tomorrow, where do you find the love to offer he who betrays you? And offer to wash my feet as i offer to disobey you, your beauty does bereave me, and how my words do fail, so