Leaning against the bars like a piece of tired tool
The muscles of my forehead sinking in against the iron
That has stood endless sandblasts and hell-blowing windblasts,
The rest is a level spread of earth till the far horizons under the blue dome of the endless sky
What have I done to this life, or what has this life done to me?
Who is imposing on me this self-hatred, hatred for this body
That has made me so wistful about the lands, lakes, rivers and skies …
(The familiar rough voice that comes with
The billy club noisily making love to the bars
Snaps the whispering twigs in the cell once again.)
A painted cell in a painted world.
Slowly breathes an unquiet silence.