Cast amidst blood and sweat
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on the floor,
I write therein as an intestinal worm.
Having lost my unidentified consciousness
And being overcome by the organic sense,
I cry aloud.
Unable to sit up or budge
Or even to scratch,
I have to lie on unclean cots full of
A great tumult occurs then -
Being thus pushed forcibly,
I come out with vehement strife -
And deprived of memory.
It's my history of a birth,
The history of my writing these stanzas...
To be very cautiously avoided.
May be worthless, it's a birth -
Very Heavenly predetermined -
Though so necrotic,
It's a birth,