If I have warred against the morning sun It is because I mourn the laziness Lost to the daylight under whose duress Real words are uttered and the real work done, For then I load the body like a gun To save the mind that real things destroy And cower in the pillbox like a boy Stuttering up against oblivion, But conscience is incurable as light, And those who kneel at heaven find the cure A mere placebo of the erudite, Yet I with lifted hand will pray once more And feel again the silent, holy night I baptized my erection in a whore.