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In the Dark Corner
I brush the dust from this old portrait:
Yes, it is the same face, exactly,
Why does it look at me still with such a look of hate?
I brush the dust from a heap of magazines:
Here there is all what you have written,
All that you struggled long years and went down to darkness for.
O God, to think what I am writing
Will be ever as this!
O God, to think that my own face
May some day glare from this dust!