A poet has the blood blue,
the color travels wherever it wants to.
Through a glimpse, or a vision clinked,
he(she) roams in flight into the kingdom of freedom,
where he(she) possesses all but reigns alone.
Thus when the Muse summons,
his(her) blood booms and boils,
forcing a supreme ecstasy and a despairing loneliness
not understandable by the world.
The color of the sky, the color of the sea,
the color of the borderlessness
means then the most delightful solitude,
the disgusting, endless immortality.
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