the accumulation of all the worlds ends,

to me but the increasing pile of salt.

darling, do you know in sea-illness

one could drink and drink, until his spirit's stomach

is more enormous than the universal river, and more.

still there is in me the thirst for you,

the who who is born above my spirit, the wind that stirs my foam

while under the ocean i breathe and drink only salt from own tears 

that permeate the emptiness of everthing?