Thy wrath doth serve my sport and cheer,
Thy dread exalts my soul to flame;
It bends my thought, it draws me near
A spellbound tale no tongue may name.
Thine eyes, false heralds, rage and glare,
In chains of fire forever bound;
The spirit bars thee, will not spare,
It girt thy flesh in iron round.
Thy toil is vain; it breaks and flies,
Dispersed within the maddened throng;
Thy sins are shriven pompously,
They pass the prison dank and wrong.
Thou sink’st to sleep with startled gaze;
A clotted knot of thickened blood
Leaps to the brink in fevered phase
And beats thy temple like a flood.
My wrath hath conquered reason whole;
The cellar veiled in oilcloth dim;
Lest tongues should wag, I sealed thy role—
I was thy judge, thy death, thy hymn.
6.12.2009.
The Wrath
© Copyright: Серж Блэйк, 2010
Свидетельство о публикации №110011808341
Свидетельство о публикации №110011808341
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