I drive myself mad: suffocated by existence.
The clergy keeps reciting tales of torment and agony.
Yet, here I am, tormented by existence and feelings.

So, at times I stoop to God; at times I seek refuge in wine.
When oblivious, I vanish; when conscious, I am in anguish!
Without the strength for peace, without the courage to agitate,

When I look all over, it is my own being, revealed and concealed:
I am the one who made the nectar; I am the one who made the pulpit.
Religion is but some rituals, tales and a rationale.

It is the answer to a question that does not have any answer!