If I knew my stature any better,
I would die, let this poverty eat, once,
if even off an author’s meat.

If I knew how to perish with preservation,
I might imbibe all the rules and walk
deep into those fairground circles,
all around my love,
a mere mingle of words enjoyed.

The exhibits are full, I know them,
their stature any better,
preserved by the ongoing scribbles
of tongues.

My stature only foxes me,
my perishing is slow and unwieldy.
I am alive; must I stand so still?
Tell me, you others,
in which way can I find the fair?