non-poema de muerte y sueños

A tithe for your pardon, my sweet, sweet friend –
Tengo pero pocas palabras with which to convey
el asunto a mano. Foot. Leg.
Whatever.
Mi inglés no está bueno
And my Spanish is even worse.
But I dreamt in both,
anoche,

And when I cut it open there was nothing there,
nada dentro, a todos,
but puss, and spit, and mold, and stink
Conectado por una raíz
de la muerte.

What does that mean?

I was wondering,
si no te importa,
and if it’s all the same to you –
Podría yo borrow tu alma?

I’m afraid mine’s rotted away.

Y no puedo poeta mierda sin ella.