In me there is mostly tiredness -
Not from this or that,
Not even from everything or from nothing:
Tiredness just like that, in itself,
Tiredness.
The subtlety of useless sensations,
The violent passions for nothing at all,
The intense love for the supposed in someone,
All those things
Those, and what they eternally lack
All that causes tiredness,
This tiredness,
Tiredness.
There are, doubtlessly, those who love the infinite,
There are, doubtlessly, those who wish for the impossible,
There are, doubtlessly, those who want nothing -
Three types of idealists, and I... none of them;
Because I infinitely love the finite,
Because I impossibly wish for the possible,
Because I want everything, or a little more, if can be,
Or even if it can't
The result?
For them the lived or dreamt life,
For them the dreamt or lived dream,
For them the medium between everything and nothing, thats is, this...
For me just a huge, a deep,
And, ah with what happiness sterile, tiredness,
A most supreme,
Tiredness