A twisted hand has grasped my mind.
Its pen plunged into my black heart
and wrenched. The unspeakable—
what acts can be contrived!—are whispered,
not by brutes, but men of artifice;
men of intellect!
Shadows float in my thoughts and dreams;
they eat at my soul with unforgiving teeth.
It is only sheer fantasy, I deceive myself. And
in my vile heart I know what it is he desires.
What a loathsome burden I beseech to you!
If surely this fiend can permit himself
such allowances,
then I too shall be freed to grant him
my ill compassions.
