Don't Be Scared

I could do it, but I will not do it,
I'm planning it, raising the issue,
I'm just playing with myself, that is all,
I should rather cry than be brave.

Although sometimes I'm scared, delight
flowing toward my throat might entomb me,
what if it’s only a ruminant horror,
what would happen if I did it?

What would happen if I kindled you
in your house on a sleepy night?
You’d be destroyed there and those whom
you loved would perish with you! Die together.

Before, I would examine your room,
I would sit there for an afternoon,
I would inscribe in my brain where your bed sits,
the papers pattern on the wall,

the stairs that lead to your door,
I want to know what will be with, and against you,
where will the fire go and where
the rebellious room will press you in?

Because you will burn. Below in the yard
a gaping mouth opens for you,
a crying pain, a swallowing throat.
Vainly, you'll rip through doors and windows.

I'll stand across the street and devour it all:
the smoke grow woolen on the firewall,
gather itself in an inflamed bouquet and burst,
a bloody bundle beneath a narrow roof!

That hot anguish that killed me before
now flows over you like puss
you’ll be a dark, dented, numb wound,
like the night and my face down there.

It should be so. But nothing will happen.
Even in hell, my faith did loosen.
This game gives me no consolation.
This point is the deepest of the night.

That I cursed you? Think what you like.
You don’t interest me, I've never loved you.
Sleep restfully, drink and eat,
and if you understand my curses—don’t be scared