What kills does not give me power
It is a sweet bud of suffering in this hour.
I bloom when I drink from the sanguine cutter;
I breathe from black lungs,
Each stifled bit of life rung
From my soul.
I am a vestige of my limitless brink,
And each blow strengthens my think.
With dripping chest and a pack of Camels, I refuse to die.
