The poem
On the great walls of ancient cloisters were nailed Murals displaying Truth the saint, Whose effect, reheating the pious entrails Brought to an austere chill a warming paint.
In the times when Christ was seeded around, More than one illustrious monk, today unknown Took for a studio the funeral grounds And glorified Death as the one way shown.
—My soul is a tomb, an empty confine Since eternity I scour and I reside; Nothing hangs on the walls of this hideous sty.
O lazy monk! When will I see The living spectacle of my misery, The work of my hands and the love of my eyes?