I’m sick, for sure: deep darkness holds my heart, br I’m bored with the people and the stories, br And dream of treasures of the kingdoms, glories, br And yataghans, all covered with blood. br br It seems to me – and this is no fraud – br A Tartar, squint, was one of my begetters, br That fierce Hun. And the infection’s fetters br Through length of ages, are my steady bond. br br I’m mute.