Circles and circles their paths, this my paving a spiral aloof on every corner of the rotunda above. Which pebble the next one? There lies one verdant emrald, then one ruby in cerise red, so on until one beryl in sallow, tangerine, cerulean, and then pale verdure in the body of it.
One foot, then two in my count - There slips my feet. Ah! Am I a child again.
Two strides then two back, alas! how does this square make one then? Where the square? 'Tis a nothingness, or a line am I too blind to sight. Ah! There some line neither fine, nor too taut a string, but a chisel's end it makes with excellence.
Or, there some line can I see not still; lest there some line can I not see.
Colors and shades in hues my visitors in mind, an ensign of my own kind of pride they make, such colors! Oh! such colors I see!
Oh my my! my dear listener to peruse so far so much, is it enough?
Not will thee say and will I ask right away how much is left.
Tell me for thou must speak; tell me for I must know.
Tessellated terrazzo in marmoreal mosaic that is, but there the marble that is not.
Aha! where the marble! Where the ground? On address of mine do they come.
Aha! where that route! which paving stony, or in bitumen of plain black blend?
I see, and I see it all again -
Unfolds my lane its smithereens of stones, stitching the raiment again and again, darning my sleeve so torn!
I see it, and I see it all again -
Am I not there anymore my darling. You who harks, well may you be told, am I not there, not yet you see.
So saunters somewhat along the right, my right foot just moving and moving;
So traipses both my thighs but veers my leg on the left, just on a sudden desire -
all on this off-white tile one in number holding me, never two, never three.
Pallid palor and lurid the sight, has it not been my lane for once.

On what this composition now? So thee ask for this my mind a labyrinth, the bushes - ah! a hollyhock they make strangling one twice.
On what composition thee enquire, scarce is life in thy tone of voice. Alack! Do you even want to know?
Later time is it, art these fingers meeting the clicks of the keys after long. Is it after later a time, and too late might hath it been - might as well the Universe work itself open and close in my lungs.
Oh dear, pardon I beseech! Pardon can you?
So on what, what urge this temptation?
So wily I seem, you see, I let down one moments ago on words.
On what force this gibberish, lest a doggerel this tapestry in poetry?
Oh! on what sensation this violent spark within, but so quiet outside - Look you! Hah! It barely burns!
Alas! alas! alas! my reader will I love evermore the eyes of in dreams I behold, when despise will I all the rest as creatures slimy, how can I tell?
Oh my Lord! Oh my deity, my Goddess upfront me, how can I tell on what this singe?
An injury invisible, merely under me skin; always under me skin.
Thus will I count on fingers again - one, two, and three, there I begin.
My bad! my bad! a mistake I made.
Five, six, then ten I say.
My bad! My bad! A Mistake I made!

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