Hiatus Irrationalis de Jaques Lacan

Things that run out from your sweat or sap,
Forms, you breed in a forge or in blood,
Your torrent not as dense as my dream;
And if I do not fight this incessant desire,

I cross your water, I shadow-fall to strike
Where attracts me the weight of my demonic mind.
Only one, he's cast on the hard ground on which he's being raised,
To evil blind, and deaf, the god devoid of sense.

Yet, so soon all verbs perish in my throat,
Things you breed from blood or from the forge,
Nature, - I lose myself in the flow of element:

It smoldering in me, is what elevates you,
Forms, molded in your sweat or sap,
That's the flame which makes me your immortal lover.