Mon cher, don't take offence

it was all rendered in English

you never saw my horse, Frenzy, 

headbutt a tiled wall

The scent of truth or, 

the soul of youth
Beauty is pain, because pain 

is truth and hencewith 
true art is tragic

In the town I live in 
almost all the windowpanes
are soiled
How could I be 
slower than my mirage of love?