A clumsy attempt to articulate my depression -
That I should wend these darkling ways
Without a friend or guide,
My hands outstretched to keep at bay
My heart from suicide.
The sulphate soil, the steaming brooks
they whisper things to me.
The colloid air, the cackling rooks:
A bleak cacophony.
And wedged in these cyclopean rocks,
Are all my stillborn dreams,
Like rusty coins in buried box,
Of moribund regimes.
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