When Will is Fault, When Faust is Woland!

Deranged and naked,
On strings of demons and ghosts,
On strings of Gods and angels,
On spirits and souls,
A plaything for them all,

Running to and fro,
Restless and abhorrent,
Laughing and completely mad,
Charming and poetic,
Disgusting wretched I

Then I loved and stopped.
I willed to regain myself!
I willed I willed I willed!
They all screamed.

In a cloak of darkness
That fell gently on my mind,
In trench-coat black
That I wore for all those years,

Demons and ghosts: “You willed!”
Gods and angels: “You willed!”
Spirits and souls: “You willed!”

They all cried unhappily,
For will is a demon – the Buddhist say,
That brings evil and cruelty,
That breaks all that is innocent,
That discards divinity,
In a futile mortal projection,
Of what once was, of a stiff sanity,
Of a morbid stench of sterility.

I looked for this song for years now,
I’ve heard it once, a synchronicity,
Caused by some ghastly presence,
When I wrote late into the night,
Moonlit window behind me,
Oh sorrows of early winter chill,
Of the demon-me that I saw,
How her ghostly pale face,
Consoled it all around,
I didn’t want this future for us,
But the futures prophesized my past,

Her cat stared knowingly at me,
I went back to her, hugging her,
She was already sleeping,
As I was writing my books
Late into the night.

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