Translation:Espergesia

I was born on a day when God was sick.

Everyone knows that I live, that I’m evil; and they don’t know about the December of that January. Since I was born on a day when God was sick.

There’s a void in my metaphysical air that no one must feel: the cloister of a silence that spoke on the edge of a fire.

I was born on a day when God was sick.

Brother, listen, listen... Alright. And may I not go without bringing Decembers, without leaving Januaries. Since I was born on a day when God was sick.

Everyone knows that I live, that I chew... and they don’t know why there’s a squeal in my verse, the dark uncertainty of a coffin, from polished unrolled winds of the inquisitive Desert Sphinx.

Everyone knows... And they don’t know that the Light is consumptive, and the Dark fat... And they don’t know that the mystery encapsulates that it’s the musical and sad hunched back that denounces from a distance the meridian step from the boundaries to the Boundaries.

I was born a day when God was sick, gravely sick.