The beauty that lives in the world has died in me now
I don't want to think or feel anymore, I don't want at all
My mind is a space where things are moved, and then taken out

My body is a vessel for mechanisms, perpetuating – how?
My spine is a nervous string, cringing, limp – then spring up, then fall
The beauty that lives in the world has died in me now

My heart is a sponge that absorbs its sustenance; it allows
That I feel shallowly, vaguely (no, not that vagueness), happy, sad, or dull
My mind is a space where things are moved, and then taken out

I once had wonder and intensity and beauty and an immense capacity for sorrow
The smallest thing used to stir, make me overbrim – they moved me – all
The beauty that lives in the world has died in me now

When once thought was a thread that stretched infinitely, intricately out and through everything – oh, now
My mind is quiet now, hushing, an (almost) empty and quiet place; nothing enthralls
My mind is a space where things are moved, and then taken out

When I was a collector of moments, the compulsive recorder – how
Did I learn to relinquish the immensity of the internal universe, what revolves in it, all?
The beauty that lives in the world has died in me now;
My mind is a space where things are moved, and then taken out.