Am meisten gelesen ▸
Bremarie Gulfan
In this cold asylum
They drug me in the bottom
In this death of patients bed
I'm seeing my visions red
I know I may not be myself
Didn't you know, the illusion is ourself?
I never wanted to see my face
This is just a playing case
They never love to see me this
But I love being the abyss.
Like a vivid hyperbole,
The sun plunged into April’s freshness,
And struck its sparkling madness
Against the barnlike dejection
Of this dark red insane asylum.
A softly clutching noise
Stumbled from the open windows.
Now and then obliquely reeling shrieks
Rose, as though from men
To whom death had assumed
An inexpressibly kindly face.
A man stood at one window,
His gaunt face trembling underneath
A feverish jauntiness.
A long white feather slanted back
Upon his almost shapeless hat,
Theirs is the house whose windows — every pane —
Are made of darkly stained or clouded glass :
Sometimes you come upon them in the lane,
The saddest crowd that you will ever pass.
But still we merry town or village folk
Throw to their scattered stare a kindly grin,
And think no shame to stop and crack a joke
With the incarnate wages of man's sin.
None but ourselves in our long gallery we meet,
The moor-hen stepping from her reeds with dainty feet,
The hare-bell bowing on his stem,
Dance not with us ; their pulses beat
To fainter music ; nor do we to them
Make their life sweet.
The gayest crowd that they will ever pass
Are we to brother-shadows in the lane :