While I incessantly pursue
my death-shroud and my hearse
you crawl, like perdition,
through my mortal body.

To occupy my time
always in a hurry
I stumble into ruins of hope,
phantoms of my sorrow

And I erect in protest
palaces of nothing
whenever the hand of Time
thwarts my designs.

Every day I bring forward
a new life for myself
while Death's course surges through me.

But for the fog of my doubt
I might have found my faith
in your unflagging crawl.
O Worm of Earth!

Then, I would have let my thought
proclaim its own vanity,
my sorrow shroud my sorrow.