When the low heavy sky weighs like a lid on the spirit Aching for the light, And when embracing the horizon, it pours on us a black day which is sadder than any night; When the earth is turned into a dripping dungeon In which hope, like a bat, Flutters blindly, and bruises its timid wing And tender head against the walls and rotted ceilings; When the rain stretching down its long streaks of water Imitates the bars of an enormous prison And a silent throng of loathsome spiders Come and weave their webs inside our brains. And suddenly the bells swing angrily, And hurl their hideous uproar into the sky Like a band of wandering spirits, who wail relentlessly. And long hearses without drums or music Move in a slow procession through my soul And defeated hope bursts into tears. And the fierce tyrant, Anguish, sets his black banner on my bowed head. — Ruth White, Flowers of Evil (1969)
Posted on: Sat, 28 Sep 2013 00:22:26 +0000
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