And again I feel the harsh grating
Of sorrows palpitating in the
Tomb-recesses of my brain:
Faltering like the wind.
And again the cosmic indifference
Anchored in me awaits the
Image of faces: no, one face.
And again the phantasmagoric curlicues
Of this face haunt me
Day and night--over, over;
Until the swift serenity of Death claims me
And lays bare those same whitewashed
Sorrows, and your face of all faces remains
Imprinted with looks of obscene serenity
And smelling of white oleander.