Pain! pain! A poem is born. The accouchement sheets are soiled, The membrane seal of morn Is torn. A new dawn breaks On the cliché peaks. Let us drink the lunatic wine Let us eat The bread of Nietzchean strength. A dead thought is a fire in the street - A poem is born. Through nine black griefs It beat in the womb, Nine bitter beliefs The poet fed it; Nine laughs of scorn The world supplied. A poem is born. A new truth singing in the vital corn.