where snails abound—in a juicy soil,

i will dig for myself a fathomless grave,

where at leisure mine ancient bones i can coil,

and sleep—quite forgotten—like a shark 'neath the wave.

i hate every tomb—i abominate wills,

and rather than tears from the world to implore,

i would ask of the crows with their vampire bills

to devour every bit of my carcass impure.

oh worms, without eyes, without ears, black friends!

to you a defunct-one, rejoicing, descends,

enlivened philosophers—offspring of dung!

without any qualms, o'er my wreckage spread,

and tell if some torment there still can be wrung

for this soul-less old frame that is dead 'midst the dead!