CVIII: The ever-singing devil in my ear

O Tinnitus, eternal friend of mine,

thou never-ending font, my ear to fill,

your tone, so bright, so razor-sharp, so fine,

so would-to-God-you-would-not-be-so-shrill!

I’ve never known a life without your song,

some firework conceived it long ago.

Without you, would my soul even belong

among the hells that wait for me below?

But say, I owe a little to you yet:

what is the balm of music with no wound?

And what, from seldom silence, would I get

if not reprieve from you with whom I’m doomed?

So, Tinnitus, thou Tartaruscan sore,

come sing for me thy searing song once more.