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when skies are low and heavy as a lid

crush the soul which moans in its infinite tedium,

and an only circle, tightening the horizon

makes of the day a sadness blacker than the night

when the earth becomes a damp secret cell

where, shy bat, hope

flaps its wings against the walls and slams its head

against the rotten ceiling

when the immense stripes of the rain

seem the railing of a vast prison

and a silent horde of loathsome spiders

spin their webs in the depths of our brains

furious suddenly bells explode

and a terrible scream they cast to the sky,

so similar to the obstinate moaning

of souls without peace, or abode

without drums, without music, hearses parade slowly,

in my heart: hope, defeated, cries,

and atrocious anguish, despotic plants

his black banner on my drooping skull